


Unforgettable--A Jared Leto/Mars Fanfiction (Book 2 of the Untouchable Series)

by Kim_Greenwood



Series: The Untouchable Series [2]
Category: 30 Seconds to Mars, jared leto - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-01 00:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 125,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kim_Greenwood/pseuds/Kim_Greenwood
Summary: Award-winning actor. Singer/songwriter, rock band front-man. Tech investor, visual artist. Jared Leto is all of that and more. He seems to have it all--a multi-faceted career doing what he loves, devoted fans around the world, money, recognition, and hard-earned respect in a cut-throat industry. And Jared has Lanie--a beautiful, tough woman who saved his life and broke through the walls around his heart, and her eleven-year-old daughter Shelby, who Jared loves as his own.But underneath this seemingly idyllic life lies conflicted heartache that years of success hasn't erased and time hasn't healed. When Kristov Belneczek reappears in Jared's life and in desperate need of help, undeniably strong feelings resurface, forcing Jared to confront the truth about who he is and what he's kept hidden from the world, from his wife, and even from himself. Then, the foundation of Lanie and Jared's months-old marriage cracks, and crumbles when online gossip gains traction which results in a sexual assault allegation against Jared, and forces Lanie to reveal a secret of her own.In the aftermath of betrayals, Jared and Lanie both must move on to find new happiness and that most essential act of closure -- forgiveness.





	1. Jared

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers!!!! I want to thank you guys so much for all the reads, votes, and amazing comments on the first book of this series, UNTOUCHABLE. Your feedback has meant the world to me, and has played a huge part in my decision to go from "Geez, I have no freaking idea how this is gonna go!" when I wrote the first chapter into "Hey, this is gonna be a multi-book series!" So kudos to y'all!!!
> 
> I really did pants that story all the way. I had a vague idea, sat down, whacked out a chapter, and said, "Hmmm...this might go somewhere..." and so I whacked out another. Then another. And so on, and 28 chapters later I had a...not complete story, but definitely something more than I ever envisioned.
> 
> I'm doing the same thing with UNFORGETTABLE. I've done some note-taking, but essentially, this one will be entirely written on the fly, too. I have some general ideas about it, and some very specific scenes and subplots that'll go into it (including a very cool and exciting idea that a fic writer from another RPF fandom and I are working on, and I'm SO stoked about it!), but otherwise, your guess is as good as mine what'll happen. Hopefully I don't screw it up and create big enough plot holes to drive a Mack truck through, though.
> 
> So, UNFORGETTABLE picks up basically where UNTOUCHABLE left off, following Jared and Lanie as they struggle with the issues and challenges brought forth in the previous book. By the way, if you're new to this series, I STRONGLY recommend reading UNTOUCHABLE before reading this book.  
> *****SPECIAL THANKS goes out to RYNNE HARRISON, author of the Chris Pine fic LEARNING TO LIVE, who's helped me tremendously through the creating of this work. Thanks for letting me "borrow" Chris, Emily and Mac and for entrusting me to their care...it's an absolute joy, and your friendship is everything <3
> 
> FYI: I've decided to write this one dual POV but first-person present-tense as UNTOUCHABLE was written. This time, you get Jared's POV as well as Lanie's, and the reason I do this will become very clear as the story goes on. It was a necessity.
> 
> I'm guessing a third book will follow, and I have the title already. I just need to work on the cover art I visualize for that one, but one thing at a time, hm? 
> 
> So...let's get this thing going, shall we?

**1-Jared**

 

"Jared. Jared?" A shake of my shoulder.  _"Jared!"_

I remove one of my earbuds and throw a glare at the strikingly beautiful woman on my right. "What now?" I demand, shaking off her claw-like grip.

"I'm bored."

I sigh. "We've only been in the air a few hours."

"I know. But I'm still bored."

"You know what? Entertaining you on the flight is  _not_  in my contract." I stick the earbud back in place and turn the volume up on my phone, hoping the music will take me somewhere—anywhere else. God, these transAtlantic flights are the worst, especially this one, because the woman I loathe more than anyone on earth—except maybe her father—is sharing the first-class cabin with me. What pisses me off even more is that Katia Valkov wasn't even supposed to be on this flight. She has access to a private jet, for Christ's sake! Why she's chosen to fly commercial to Madrid with me is anyone's guess.

Actually, I have a suspicion why.  _Too bad, babe. Ain't happening. Not in-flight, not in Madrid, Paris, or London, either. Not if I have anything to say about it._

Problem is, I  _don't_  have a say. What Katia Valkov wants, Katia Valkov gets, and if she wants my dick, I'll have to oblige.

Or else.

I shift in my seat and gaze out at the few clouds floating past the window. I wish I was home with Lanie and Shelby. I miss them both already, with a deep, hollow ache carving out my insides.

Thank God Lanie opted not to accompany me to LAX, though. Goodbyes make her crazy, she said. This goodbye in particular weighed on both of us, and Lanie's gorgeous hazel-green eyes gave away all that she didn't say. We said our goodbyes at home, and so Lanie has no idea Katia is on this flight with me. She wouldn't be happy if she knew. But I'll have to tell her. Keeping secrets, especially ones where Katia Valkov are concerned, are no way to start off our marriage.

Lanie has accepted that I have to continue this arrangement. She accepts it, but I know how much it hurts her. A knife twists in my gut at the thought of causing her so much anguish. I know it haunts her. I know she's wondering how far I'll be forced to go to keep Katia happy, to ensure that she keeps what she has on me secret.

My back and leg ache like hell despite the luxurious first-class accomodations. Laying down would help, but I don't dare recline my seat. Knowing Katia, she'd take that as an invitation, even though my brother Shannon, and our bandmates Tomo and Stevie occupy the rest of the cabin. My two assistants along on the trip, Carrie Walsh and Danica Simmons, are just on the other side of the wall in coach. Not that Katia would care. She's not known for discretion.

As those thoughts cross my mind, a hand slides over my thigh, heading straight for my crotch. Scowling, I stop the hand mid-journey and fling it away from me."Knock it off," I hiss, glancing behind me at my bandmates. All three of them are sleeping already. Unperturbed, Katia grins back at me but she leaves me alone, returning to her seat and turning her attention to her phone.

Jesus Christ, this woman is a pain in the ass. Worse than that—she's a nightmare from which it seems I'll never awaken. And I need to. Especially now that I have a wife and stepdaughter who mean everything to me, it's imperative that I extricate myself from both Katia's and her father Ivan's clutches, and the sooner the better. I just need to figure out how to do it without destroying my life.

 

***

 

Lanie and I were married just days before my trip to Europe for the EMA's. Ours was an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment Vegas wedding in the middle of a camping trip near Sedona, Arizona, the place where Lanie and I met, where she and her daughter saved my life. Getting married was a rash action by any definition. But I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was the right thing. I'd proposed, Lanie had accepted, we drove to Vegas, and the deed was done the following day.

After the five-minute ceremony, we returned to our camping spot in Oak Creek Canyon for another two nights before heading back to L.A., where we surprised family and close friends alike with the announcement that we'd gotten married during the trip.

But if family and friends were surprised, my team was shocked. And pissed off. Not that I'd expected a warm reaction to the news. I'd been considered the most sought-after eligible bachelor in Hollywood for years—a description that I still find laughable—and to have suddenly tied the knot—and with a non-celebrity single mother at that—threw my lawyers, management, and my new publicist into pure panic mode.

Nope. There's never a dull moment working for me.

"Married with no pre-nup," Oliver Hatch, my personal and business attorney moaned in despair. "Jared, you've completely lost your mind."

"Because I married the woman I love, I've lost my mind?" I asked mildly, but I felt my left eye twitch, the only outward sign of aggravation I displayed.

"Your financial affairs are complicated.  _More_  than complicated. You can't get married without protecting yourself, for God's sake. It's unthinkable!" Oliver flung his hands in the air. "Who is this woman, this Marlena McCarty, anyway?"

I crossed my legs and regarded the man steadily. "Like I said, she's the woman I love. And she's now my wife."

Oliver shook his head. " _Now_  he gets romantic." Turning to the paralegal hovering in his office, he snapped, "Draft a post-nup for Mr. Leto and his wife to sign. I want it on my desk by the end of the day." When the assistant was gone, he turned back to me. "I'll bring it by your house to sign when it's ready." At my frigid glare, Oliver continued, "Jared, you have to have her sign  _something._  The community property laws in this state will screw you if you don't."

"You're wasting your time," I retorted. "You don't seem to get it, Ollie. I don't want to sign any agreement. I don't want my _wife_  to sign any agreement. We didn't get married with divorce contingency plans in mind."

Oliver sighed. "I get it perfectly well, Jared. But with the divorce rate these days, and especially in this town? Your kind of naivete and idealism will leave you in financial ruin. I can guarantee it."

Karen Hale, who took over as my publicist after I dumped Suzanne Hoffman last month when photos of Lanie and I went public, made it clear she was not thrilled, either. A tall, thin woman in her thirties with a face like a horse, she glowered balefully at me across her desk piled high with files, books, and a laptop computer precariously balanced on the mess. "You really are a publicist's worst nightmare," she said, but added that if I had to elope in Vegas, it was a good thing I'd married a private citizen instead of another celebrity with a following of her own, which would entail Karen having to work in tandem with another team of reps to handle the fallout.

Regarding me across the heap of junk on her desk, she asked, "In light of your marriage, are you planning to continue the...arrangement...with Katia Valkov?"

"Arrangement?" I echoed, playing dumb.

"I'm well aware of the situation, Jared." She tapped her laptop screen with the eraser end of a pencil. "I'm assuming, since you don't yet want to announce your marriage, that you're going to continue to publicly 'date' Katia?"

 _Yeah, because I don't have any choice. Scratch that; I have choices, but the only ways out of it are even worse than dating Katia._ "My wife understands the situation," I muttered, and added, veering off the subject, "I know press is set for London. Can I count on you for Madrid and Paris as well?"

Karen nodded, the movement quick and bird-like. "I've got you set up for two interviews with a couple of entertainment weekly type talk shows in Madrid before the awards show on Friday, and I'm working on a piece with a French news service the day after you arrive in Paris. How  _is_  your French, by the way?"

"Better than my Spanish, which pretty much sucks." I gave her my self-deprecating smile that people say is irresistible, in the hopes that it would thaw the woman out a little. She seemed so stiff and formal, more lawyer than PR rep. "My wife is fluent in both Spanish and French."

"Then perhaps she should be accompanying you." At my sudden silence, Karen shook her head. "Or not, since Katia will be joining you and she'll insist on being seen on your arm. That'd be...awkward." She folded her hands and studied me. "I don't know what it is that she has on you, but it certainly must be something that keeps you pandering to this nonsense in light of your marriage. How are you going to handle this...situation, and for how long, Jared?"

"As long as I have to." I shifted in my chair. "Look...Karen? Yeah? Karen. Your job is to arrange press. I'll deal with Katia and Ivan Valkov my way, so don't worry your pretty head about it." I tried to assume a flirtatious tone, but Karen was having none of it.

"One wrong move and this could all blow up in your face," she warned, tapping the pencil again. "And make my job even more of a living hell."

 _Yeah? Welcome to my life,_  I thought as I left, heading next to my offices on Wilshire to check in with my team and finalize last-minute preparations for the trip to Europe. Despite Lanie's wonderful massage that morning, my back ached fiercely as I walked out to the Pathfinder belonging to Jimmy Quentin, my chief of security.

30 Seconds to Mars being nominated for Best Alternative Rock at the MTV EMA's was awesome as hell considering we haven't put out an album and have only released one single in four years. I should've felt on top of the world. But I wasn't feeling the high that I should with that achievement. I should've been eagerly anticipating the trip culminating in hopefully winning that award. But in reality, I just wanted to get this trip over with so I could focus on spending time with Lanie and Shelby and finish the new album on schedule. Then I could take a much-needed break, allowing my leg to continue healing and my back to rest before going on another grueling tour in Europe, followed by several more dates in America. And then, later in the year, I had a film to shoot.

After leaving my offices on Wilshire, I headed home. Shannon and his new girlfriend Ashley as well as my mother were coming for dinner, and I looked forward to spending time with my family. At least they and my bandmates aren't condemning our marriage. Not that I really thought they would. My mom and Lanie hit it off immediately, and Mom's thrilled to have gained a granddaughter to dote on. After a great deal of initial friction when they met, my protective older brother Shannon has come around, and he now loves Lanie and her daughter, too.

Tomo and Stevie also both liked Lanie from the start. "She's different than your usual type," Tomo told me when he met Lanie in September, after I convinced her to accompany me from Oak Creek Canyon to L.A. after the accident that, if not for Lanie and her daughter Shelby finding me and giving me medical attention, would have killed me. "And the fact that she's different from your usual type is a good thing. A  _very_  good thing."

Stevie agreed. "All this time that I've known you I've said if you're gonna settle down, bro, pick someone who isn't in the business with her own agenda and carrying a freight train of industry baggage along with a gigantic ego. Glad you finally listened to me."

It's true that Lanie has zero interest in show business. Much more at home out in the wilderness where we met than in my Hollywood mansion or among the beautiful people in L.A., my wife is different, all right. But that's what I love about her. She doesn't play games, she's honest to a fault, and she's never put me on a pedestal because I'm a celebrity, instead accepting me exactly as I am. Unimpressed with my status—in fact, when we met she had no idea who I even was—Lanie is unfazed by everything that being Jared Leto entails.

Well...almost everything.

I know she hates the invasion of privacy. She hates the paparazzi dogging our every move on the rare occasions we've been spotted in public together. She hates the way I'm often micro-managed by my team, and she understandably detests the presence of Katia and Ivan Valkov in our lives. But she accepts that this is all part of our reality, and she married me despite everything, and despite knowing everything about me.

Including the secret I'm desperate to keep hidden. The secret that I was once sexually involved with another man,  there is explicit photographic evidence of that relationship, and that evidence is now in the hands of Ivan and Katia Valkov.

Kristov Belneczek. A beautiful model from Russia, and Katia's ex-husband. Kristov and I once had a discreet and all-too-tumultuous relationship several years ago, ending when Kristov's father Yuri, a top cabinet member under Vladmir Putin, discovered the affair and put an abrupt stop to it.

I think about Kristov often, and a few times lately I've seen his face grace magazine pages in high-profile ad campaigns. He looks as sexy and as beautiful as ever, but I wonder how he's really doing— if he's happy now that he's reportedly left Russia for America and, with Yuri's retirement from service, is now out from under the pressure of being the closeted gay son of a Russian government official. I'm happy for him, because I know all too well what an enormous strain it is being forced to live a lie.

Kristov is the only man I've ever been with, though I'd been fairly bi-curious for my entire adult life. Once, long, long ago, I'd grown close to 30 Seconds to Mars' original bassist, Matt Wachter, and many speculated our relationship was more than that of bandmates and friends. But nothing ever happened between us. I think if he'd stayed with the band, it might have. There were signs that it was headed in that direction, and then Matt abruptly quit the band and married a hometown girl named Libby.

Lanie took my confession of being bisexual pretty much in stride—more, certainly, than I ever expected her to. "It's part of who you are," she told me calmly on the late night trip from Oak Creek Canyon to Vegas. "And it's part of why I don't want our vows to include 'forsaking all others'."

My eyes left the desert highway and I threw Lanie a startled glance. "What do you mean?"

She didn't look at me. "Well, earlier today you told me not to ask you to make promises you're not sure you can keep."

"Lanie—" I reached out to take her hand. "I'm sometimes sexually attracted to guys, yeah, but I have no plans to act on the attraction again."

"Maybe, maybe not, but you can't predict the future. And there's still Katia Valkov, isn't there?" Lanie's voice turned uncharacteristically harsh as she spoke the despised name.

I sighed, but my grip on her hand tightened. "You know the deal with her."

Lanie nodded. "Yeah, I do. You hate her guts, but you'll probably have to fuck her to keep her quiet." She looked out her window. "So, I don't want you to promise to be faithful to me, because in all likelihood you won't be." Her voice softened. "You  _can't_ be. I just want you to know that I get that. I can't say I'm okay with it, because I'm not. Not by a long shot. But I accept that it's a reality."

I grimaced, feeling her pain through her hand clenched in mine. Lanie is tough as nails. She is the strongest woman I have ever met, and brave beyond all reason, but God, what was I asking of her, to marry me with all of this hanging between us? I cleared my throat. "Lanie...if this is too much for you, if you don't want to go through with this wedding, tell me now. I'll understand. We can wait until after Katia and I conclude our arrangement."

Lanie slowly turned from her window, her luminous eyes meeting mine in the darkened car. "No. You asked, I said yes, and we're on our way to Vegas. I honestly don't know if I can handle it or not, but maybe—" she paused, worrying her bottom lip. "Maybe something might happen that'll put a stop to it sooner."

"Like what?" I asked. "Short of the two of them dying in a plane crash or something, or else miraculously growing a heart and a conscience."

Lanie looked away and shrugged. "I don't know," she mumbled. She drew a deep breath and turned to me again. Her eyes were pensive and sad, but still with that direct, guileless clarity in them. "Anyhow, look at it this way. If you have to see this all the way through, and if we can make it until the end of the agreement, then that's got to be some reassurance that we can get through anything else in the future. I just keep trying to see it that way."

I stroked the back of her hand with my thumb. "Same. You're right, babe. We can, and we will get through this. We'll get through anything."

 

***

 

Twelve hours trapped in an airplane with Katia Valkov is twelve hours too many. By the time we land in Madrid, between her caustic presence and my physical discomfort, I'm ready to lose it.

The guys stop to exchange some American money for Euros. Trailed by Katia, Carrie and Danica, I stride through the VIP terminal as quickly as I can manage, eager to get to the hotel and crash for a few hours before dealing with the onslaught of press and appearances that await.

Departing the terminal, I head for the limo driver beckoning me. Despite dressing in a plain t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans, the man didn't have a problem recognizing me, which should've been my first warning.

"Jared," Carrie mutters from the side of her mouth, "Better hurry. Here they come."

 _They_  turn out to be two young women, gaping at me as if they'd just seen Jesus, and three or four paparazzi who'd also caught the scent.

Katia's spied them, too, and she rushes to catch up to me, wobbling slightly in her stiletto heels as she rounds the corner to join me outside the terminal, two lackeys behind her hauling her ridiculous quantity of luggage on carts. She grabs my arm in a possessive clutch, throwing a toothpaste-commercial smile at the approaching paparazzi.

I pick up my pace, though my back and leg scream in protest, almost as loud as the shrieks of the two girls who hurry to catch me before I can escape into the waiting limousine.

Babbling excitedly in Spanish, the two of them shove Katia out of the way and throw themselves into my arms. My return hugs are completely misconstrued, but hey. A couple of hugs, selfies and autographs is a pittance to pay in way of thanks. Danica and Carrie both smirk as I pose for the selfies and scrawl my signatory autograph. My assistants hate Katia almost as much as I do, having been subjected to her rudeness and imperious attitude a number of times.

Furious, Katia attempts to reclaim her rightful place at my side, but the fans are having none of it. Eventually, I excuse myself with plenty of charm and lousy Spanish, we're bundled into the limo, and as soon as Shannon, Stevie, and Tomo join us, we're on our way to the hotel. Another car follows us carrying our luggage, most of it Katia's.

"God! What low-class trash your Echelon girls are!" Katia huffs, finger-combing her hair and applying fresh lipstick. "Even the European ones. Fat, ugly... _yebanko._  Ugh! Disgusting!"

My bandmates along with Carrie and Danica exchange a look and a mutual eye-roll. Katia pays no attention—she's digging in her bag for her compact, still muttering under her breath.

I pull out my phone and double-check the hotel reservation.  _Please tell me we have separate rooms. If not, I'll happily bunk with Shannon and put up with his smoking, snoring and farting. Just please, don't make me share a room with Katia._

God bless whoever it was on the team who'd booked our rooms. Katia is not only in a separate room but on a separate floor, several stories below the rest of us. Just to be on the safe side, however, I don't go to my room. Instead, I instruct the bellhop to follow me to Shannon's room, and I bang on his door.

"It's open, bro," he calls, as if he's been expecting me. I open the door and step in his room, the bellhop wheeling the cart with my things on it behind me. Shannon's sprawled on one of the beds, thumbing through the channels on the TV trying to find something in English. He glances over at me with a knowing smirk. "Yeah, I figured I'd be seeing you."

I tip the bellhop, who nods and mumbles his thanks. When he's gone, I say, gesturing at the other bed, "You don't mind, do you?"

Shannon throws me a look and deadpans,"Not at all, if you don't mind that I watch porn. Seems to be the only thing they offer in English."

"Great." Yawning, I slip off my sneakers and gingerly lay down on the other bed. I heave a long sigh and close my eyes. I'm exhausted, but I don't know if the pain will allow me much sleep. My back is spasming worse than ever, my leg is killing me, and I miss Lanie so bad I want to die.

"It's only like five in the evening back home," Shannon informs me. "I already called Ash. Give Lanie a call. She's probably expecting to hear from you."

"Yeah, I'm sure she is." Sleepily, I grab my phone.

Lanie answers on the second ring. "Hey," she says, and I can almost see her smile. "You made it. How was the flight?"

"Long and hellish," I answer. "You doing okay, babe?"

"I miss you. Shelby misses you. But we're okay. And you? Is everything okay?"

I know what she's asking. "I'm rooming with Shannon," I answer.

There's a silence, and then, "Oh. I see." Another silence, this one longer and uncomfortable. "I can't deny that I'm happy to hear that, but I'm guessing that means she's already putting pressure on you."

I take a deep breath. "Not exactly, but she flew here on the same plane with us. I swear, Lanie, I had no clue about that until she showed up at LAX."

"I believe you," Lanie says. "Nothing Katia Valkov does surprises me."

"Yeah." I shift around a little to get comfortable, but my back spasms and I can't conceal a sharp intake of breath and a low curse.

"Oh, God. You're in pain, aren't you. How bad is it, Jared?"

How well she knows me. "Truthfully? It's pretty fucking miserable. It's from the long flight, I'm sure. Once I can relax and sleep, I'll be okay. Even so, it's gonna be a long ten days. I wish you were here, Lanie. Better yet, I wish I was home."

"You will be soon," Lanie says soothingly. "Shelby just came in. Do you want to say hi?"

I smile. "Of course I do."

There's a pause, and then my stepdaughter's voice is on the phone. "Hey, Jared. Are you in Spain now?"

"I'm in Spain, yep. Madrid. I'm in a hotel room with Uncle Shannon." I meet Shannon's eyes.

"Hey kiddo!" Shannon calls out, loud enough for her to hear.

"Tell him hi," Shelby says. "So what's Madrid like?"

"Well, it's a very old city, with a lot of really nice places to visit. There's a royal palace that's huge and beautiful. I'll try to get by there while I'm here, and get some pictures for you."

"And then you're going to Paris, right? Will you get to see the Eiffel Tower?"

"That's right. Just for a day or two. I'll get pics of the Eiffel Tower, and then I'll go to London for a few more days, and then I'll be home. Miss me yet?"

"Tons. It's weird here without you," Shelby says. She lowers her voice. "Mom's sad. I saw her crying today when I got home from school."

I squint my eyes closed, trying to swallow the rock lodged in my throat. "Well then, I'm giving you a job. Your job is to try to keep your mom cheered up until I'm home. Okay, kiddo?"

"Okay. I'll let you talk to her now. Tyrell and I are going bike riding after dinner."

"Be careful if you're riding out on the street," I admonish. "You know how narrow and winding they are. And don't forget to wear your helmet." _Jesus,_  I think in dim amazement.  _I've really picked up on this parenting thing. Pretty cool._

A long sigh. "I know. Don't worry, we're gonna go by the school on the bike trails. Here's Mom. Bye, Jared. Love you!"

A warmth floods me and I smile. "Love you too, Shelby. I'll talk to you very soon."

When Lanie takes the phone again, I tell her I'm hanging up to FaceTime instead. I do, and soon Lanie's face is there, studying mine. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look awful," she comments.

"Thanks," I say ruefully.

We talk awhile longer, and finally Lanie says, "You need sleep. Go get some, and we'll talk tomorrow."

"I'm not sure what time that'll be. I've got press tomorrow, rehearsals, and as soon as we're done there's an appearance on a late night talk show. It'll probably be two in the morning again."

"That's okay. Just call when you can. I love you, Jared." She smiles, but I see what's underneath it, what's lingering in her eyes. She's worried about me. She's worried about what's more than likely to happen on this trip. Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. Or in a week.

She's not alone. I'm worried, too. I dread what I know is coming.

I plug in my phone and set it on the nightstand next to me. Then I glance at Shannon. He's asleep, snoring quietly. The TV's still going, tuned to some Spanish soap opera. I drag myself out of bed, find the remote lodged half under him, and shut it off. I undress and slide into bed, shutting off the lamp and wondering if Katia's already tried my room. Tough luck if she has, and if she's stupid enough to come to Shannon's room and wake him up, she'll get a guaranteed ass-chewing she's not likely to forget.

Laying in bed, I study the plain gold band on my finger. Taking it off is something I refuse to even consider. No one's noticed it yet anyway, because I'm wearing several rings on both hands. I remove those and lay them by my phone, leaving my wedding band on. I touch it, spinning it around on my finger, remembering picking it out with Lanie in a jewelry store on our way to the wedding chapel in Vegas. That was just a few days ago, and now here we are, thousands of miles apart, and I'm dealing with a woman who has no knowledge that I've gotten married, but plenty of knowledge that she won't hesitate to use against me.

Parading around in public with Katia Valkov like I'm her personal property is bad enough. Fucking her is an ordeal I can't begin to think about. My mind will snap like an overtaxed rubber band if I let it linger on that thought. And so instead, I close my eyes and fill my mind with thoughts and visions of Lanie, counting down the days and hours until I'm home with her and Shelby again. And soon, despite the agony of my back and leg, I'm deeply asleep.


	2. Lanie

There's a party in full swing going on at Pharrell Williams' house. The music, snippets of conversation and laughter carries clearly down the hill to the patio where I'm sitting in the oak-framed swing, glass of iced tea in hand, enjoying the warm evening. Nearby, the burble of the mini-waterfall that feeds the lagoon-style pool adds to the festive sounds coming from our famous neighbor's palatial home.

Pharrell himself had stopped by early in the day and invited me to the party, but I politely declined. I'd feel more than a little awkward and out of place at a Hollywood party, especially with Jared out of town. But even if Jared was in town and had accepted the invitation I couldn't have gone with him. Not to a social event held by a high-profile music industry powerhouse like Pharrell Williams—an album release party likely to be heavily attended by A-listers, and covered by who knows how many members of the media as well as the ever-lurking paparazzi.

I am Jared Leto's wife, but Pharrell Williams doesn't know it. In fact, hardly anyone knows. Nor can they know. Not when my husband is dating someone else

I can just imagine the scene up there at Pharrell's. His house is a dream; a gorgeous, floor-to-ceiling glass architectural marvel. Nowhere near as large as Jared's infamous compound that I call home, but far more modern. I can visualize all the huge rooms and landscaped grounds filled with people dressed in their finest, talking, laughing, drinking, dancing, telling each other how great they are and how great they look. That's the way Hollywood people seem to always talk to each other; as if greatness is the only thing in the world that matters.

Laurel Canyon. Hollywood. Los Angeles. I'm certainly a long way from the north woods, and not only in terms of miles. 

It's hard to believe that in early September I was living in the Arrowhead region of Minnesota, running my late father's hunting and fishing retreat, dealing with a paranoid meth-head of an ex-husband, and going about my daily life as a single mother and an EMT.

At that time, the only connection I had to Jared Leto was an incident that took place fourteen years ago, at a 30 Seconds to Mars concert when I was eighteen. I had gotten caught up in an over-rowdy mosh pit and was nearly kicked, beaten, and trampled to death. Security had been unable to control the raging mass of bodies. And so Jared had leaped from the stage, hurtled the barricade, and rescued me himself.

More often than I care to admit, I wonder if I'm still that teenage girl. Maybe I took a blow to the head and I've dreamed everything that's happened since. What else can explain the insane twists and turns that led me to where I am now, living in the largest home in Laurel Canyon, the wife of one of its most famous and successful residents?

I sip my iced tea and continue rocking in the swing. Jared's been gone three days, and tonight is the Los 40 Awards in Madrid. 30 Seconds to Mars is performing, and Jared is presenting an award. With the vast time difference, I know the event has concluded already and it's early morning there. I know there's press and after-parties he must've attended. But I keep willing for my FaceTime to buzz, to see his face and hear his voice, to get the assurance that he's alone or with his brother and bandmates. I need to hear that he's continued to dodge Katia Valkov's determination to get him alone and in her bed. But even if he has been able to ward her off thus far, I know it won't last. She'll have him. Maybe she's already had him. Maybe they're in bed together this very minute. Maybe that's why he hasn't called tonight, when we've FaceTimed every day since he left.

The more my mind dwells on that possibility, the more certain I am that's exactly what's going on. It grows in me until that's the only plausible explanation for his silence.

Will Jared tell me the truth when we speak next?

Part of me is sure he will, because he said he wouldn't keep anything from me. But another part whispers that Jared will probably lie to spare me the pain he knows this would cause, and the potential damage it'll do to our very new marriage. And he probably doesn't want to deal with my reaction.

I don't want to think about my reaction, either. I love my husband, with a fierceness, with an all-encompassing passion that I never knew was possible. But I am not the kind of woman who takes an ounce of bullshit. And I'm not about to start now.

There's an alternative. An alternative that would stop this thing in its tracks. Though Jared won't even consider it, the thought has taken root since I first learned of it. I don't consciously dwell on it for long because the thought makes me almost physically ill,  but it's there. Always there. The alternative offer proposed by Katia Valkov's father that would set my husband free and keep his secret safe.

The alternative, Ivan Valkov told Jared the night the blackmail was revealed, was to give me to Ivan Valkov instead.

 _Give_ me to him. Like I'm an inanimate object to be bartered. What kind of man would even consider making an offer like that?

One who buys and sells people—women—on a regular basis, that's what kind. I remember what my friend Flora DuSchene said about the billionaire Russian investor, voicing her suspicions that he is involved with any number of shady activities, human trafficking being among them. I remember Jared telling me that Ivan is closely associated with executive producer and Miramax Films co-founder Harvey Weinstein, who's just been outted as a sexual predator by a number of high-profile Hollywood actresses.

A ripple of disgust makes me shudder. I sip my iced tea, sitting back in the swing and gazing at the few stars visible despite the competing glow of billions of city lights below.  From the sounds of it, everyone in attendance at Pharrell's party is having a great time. 

It's close to ten o'clock at night, which makes it seven in the morning in Madrid. 

I haven't heard a word from Jared in over twenty-four hours. As the evening has worn on, I've become more certain of the reason he hasn't called, FaceTimed, or even texted.

I swallow my anguish and fury with the last of the iced tea and pick up my phone.

Though I know Flora keeps early hours, she answers quickly, assuring me I didn't wake her. Something tells me she's been expecting my call. "Let me guess. Jared hasn't called and you're losing your mind," Flora says, with no preamble whatsoever.

Leave it to Flora to get straight to the point. "Bingo," I mutter. "He's sleeping with that bitch. I  _know_  he is."

A long sigh. "You knew the deal going into this, Lanie. If she wants to have sex with him, he doesn't have too many other viable options but to give her what she wants. Not unless he wants his past with Kristov splashed all over the tabloids."

Flora is one of very few people who know everything. I remember her expression when she found out. Open-mouthed, rounded eyes, and then when she regained her composure, she complimented Jared on having excellent taste. "Kristov Belneczek is one of the best-looking men I've ever  _seen._ Naturally, the dude's gay. It figures."

I grit my teeth. "Yeah, I knew the deal, and I also knew I would probably come unglued. I could  _kill_  her. Her  _and_  her disgusting sleaze of a father."

"Not easily. The Valkovs have an army of bodyguards." Flora pauses. "Do you need me to come over to keep you sane?"

"No. I need to hear from my husband to keep me sane."

Flora sighs. "Well, it's gotta be some consolation that Jared looked miserable at the awards, right?"

"He did? I didn't watch it," I reply, frowning. What does she mean, he looked miserable?

"You didn't watch it? Why not?" Flora demanded.

"Why do you think I didn't? Because seeing him walk the red carpet with Katia hanging all over him wouldn't exactly help my state of mind right now."

"Well, yeah, I see your point. But he did look miserable," Flora informs me. "Not like himself at all. Tight-lipped, tight-ass smiles. Wooden expression. He walked really stiff, like he was in pain, so that's probably part of it, too. Naturally, Katia was glowing."

 _Naturally. She's probably doing a whole lot more than glowing right about now._ I mutter a low curse.

"You sure you don't want me to come over?"

I rub my eyes with my free hand. "I'm okay, Flora. I just...I think I'm going to go to bed. The sooner I get to sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come. That'll bring me one day closer to Jared coming home."

"I'm sorry you're going through this." Flora's voice is quiet and sympathetic. "If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know."

"I will. Thanks, girl."

I end the call and get to my feet. Slowly I go inside, into my bedroom that's all too empty. I undress, brush my teeth, and get into my too-big bed, sliding between sheets that seem unusually harsh and cold. I switch off the lamp next to my side of the bed and stare straight up at the ceiling, willing my thoughts to quiet, and the visions my mind's determined to torture me with away. In a way, I feel like a patient who awakens during an operation and feels every bit of the cutting, but the anesthetic won't allow me to communicate the pain. And so I'm left with only a silent mantra to repeat over and over.

_I will not cry._

_I. Will. Not. Cry._

 

***

 

To keep my mind occupied, I throw myself into housework first thing the next morning. Our housekeepers, Carmen, Ana, and Ana's younger sister Ella, all seem a bit put out by my presence amid their Saturday cleaning and laundering tasks, as if they're worried I'm there to scrutinize and critique their work. I quickly put that assumption to rest when I grab a broom and begin sweeping the long hall that leads to Shelby's tower.

 _"Senorita_  Lanie, it isn't necessary," Carmen protests in Spanish. "This is  _our_  job."

"It's my job today," I reply shortly. Everything gets so dusty in this dry climate, and despite regular meticulous cleaning, the broom quickly accumulates a pile of dirt. I realize most of the Hollywood wives that these women have worked for probably don't lift a finger, but that isn't and never will be me. Until I get a job—something I'm giving more thought to by the day—I'm going to work in the house as hard as our housekeepers do.

And they do work hard. Jared's compound is enormous. A hundred thousand square feet total, by far the largest home in Laurel Canyon. Perhaps the largest in Los Angeles. Even though we only use a small portion of that space, it all needs maintaining, and there's always plenty to do.

When I'm done sweeping the hall, I go to the housekeepers' storage room and find a mop and bucket. Filling the bucket with cleaning solution and hot water, I wipe sweat from my brow and mentally tick down the list of chores I've assigned myself as well as the women. Ana and Ella are on laundry; Carmen and I will tackle the four floors of Shelby's tower. That'll keep us all busy until the women leave at four-thirty.

Between mopping and getting down on my knees to hand scrub some stubborn spots, the hall takes over an hour to complete. Then it's time to work on Shelby's area, including cleaning her kittens' litter boxes—a chore I detest and usually delegate to Shelby to handle herself.

I admit, I'm a bit of a taskmaster where Shelby's concerned. The last thing I want is for my daughter to become a stereotypical spoiled, lazy Hollywood brat who won't clean up after herself, and thus far, I've succeeded in making sure she does her fair share. Saturday is deep-cleaning day, and I'm pleased to find that there's not much to do besides scrubbing out her mini-fridge, vacuuming, and making sure she's gotten her laundry sorted. The litter boxes, one on each floor, are filled with fresh litter, no cat poop in sight.  _Nice job, kiddo,_  I think proudly.

 _"Senorita_  Shelby is a very good girl," Carmen remarks as we look over the four floors. "Very  _tidy_ girl."

Ha! If Carmen had seen what Shelby's little bedroom in Minnesota usually looked like, she wouldn't think so. Most of the time I couldn't find the floor. But Shelby takes great pride in the converted control tower that Jared had Flora design into a tween girl paradise. Even after her Halloween slumber party, Carmen told me the place looked amazingly good after being subjected to four wild fifth-grade girls running riot half the night.

I carry the laundry basket down the elevator and hand it off to Carmen to take for Ana and Ella to wash. I head for the kitchen, deciding while I'm on a roll that I'll get the floor scrubbed in there, too.

As I pass my closed bedroom door I pause, my ears detecting a faint sound coming from within. It can't be Shelby; she's gone to her friend Mylloni's house with Jimmy's son Tyrell, and Shelby wouldn't have any reason to be in my room anyway. And I've made it clear to the housekeepers that mine and Jared's bedroom isn't part of their housekeeping duties.

The door is unlocked, which itself is odd. Slowly I push the door open and stop short. My bed's been stripped of sheets, the comforter neatly folded on the bare mattress, and Ella is standing there with the sheets in her arms.

"Ella? What are you doing in here?" I ask, keeping my voice as level and calm as I can manage. "I've made it very clear that no one is to come in here."

The woman gulps, and stammers, "Oh,  _S-Senorita_  Lanie, I know. I'm sorry. I just thought—you have worked so hard today—I thought that I would help you. Please, I didn't mean any harm."

My alarm and brewing anger dissipates. Ella's new to the staff, so she probably doesn't understand how adamant I am about the no-housekeepers rule in our bedroom. She's just trying to help me, and I don't have the heart to chew her out. Not that I would, anyway. Perhaps because this life of luxury is still something I'm by no means yet accustomed to, I'm not the type of person that yells at our household staff. I still feel as though I'm one of them more than I am mistress of the estate. 

"I appreciate you trying to help me, but it's not necessary. I would prefer to clean my room myself." Even as I speak, giving Ella a reassuring smile, I dart my eyes around, making sure nothing has been disturbed—especially my battered old pack, leaning in a corner by my patio door. My entire life is in that pack. My life, and Shelby's.

" _Si, si_. I understand. I'm very sorry." Ella nods, her eyes downcast.

"It's all right. You can take those to wash, but I'll make the bed myself when they're dry."

 _"Si, Senorita_  Lanie." With another murmured apology, Ella hurries from the room with the bundle of sheets.

When she's gone, I go over to the bare mattress and flop down on it, staring at the ceiling. All of a sudden the energy and ambition I had this morning seems to have drained out of me, and thoughts of Jared over there in Madrid with Katia Valkov come crashing into my mind once again. My stomach twists in a knot of something like dread, and a heavy buzzing fills my head. Taking a deep breath seems to be impossible, like there's something inside me squeezing my lungs. My heart's hammering in my chest, and I wonder if this is what an anxiety attack feels like.

_Jared, please, please call me. Please call me and make me feel like we really will get through this, that you still love me. Because the longer this silence goes on, the more certain I am that we won't, and that you don't._

_Well, why don't_ you  _call_ him?

_Because I don't want to appear needy._

_Because I don't want to hear him say he's too busy and can't talk right now._

_Because I don't want to hear that bitch's voice in the background, reminding me that she's with him and I'm not._

_Because I'm scared he'll tell me the truth._

_Because I'm scared he'll lie._

"Oh, fuck," I whisper. Gritting my teeth, I get up and take my phone out of my pocket. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up Jared's number and hit send.

No answer. I consider leaving him a message, but before it beeps to start recording, I hang up. Well, he'll see the missed call. No doubt about that. Now I just have to wait and see if he returns it.

What if he doesn't? What if I don't hear from him at all? What if next week he flies back from London and tells me our marriage was a mistake and it's over? What if—

My phone which is still in my hand rings, and I'm so startled I drop it. Quickly I pick up the phone and turn it over, thinking it's probably Flora checking to see if I'm okay, or Magda, or Constance, or Shelby, or a telemarketer.

It's none of them. It's Jared.

"Hello?" I say, a touch breathlessly. My hand's actually shaking.

"Hey, babe," his warm and slightly raspy voice caresses my ear. "I'm sorry, I was in the bathroom."

"It's okay," I say quickly. "I—how are you?"  _Are you alone? Why the fuck didn't you call me? Do you have any clue what I'm going through here? Do you care, goddammit?_

"My back hurts like a bitch," he sighs. "I really overdid it last night."

 _Oh? Doing what?_ "I—I'd hoped to hear from you after the awards last night," I murmur.

Is there the slightest bit of hesitation? "I know. I'm so sorry, babe. I was going to call. I had every intention of it. But the night went late, I got tied up, and today's been—"

"Literally?" The word slips out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and there's no way Jared can mistake my tone. It's dripping with accusation.

A heavy sigh. "Lanie...that's not what I meant. I  _meant,_  I got tied up with  _work._  Networking. Schmoozing. All the shit that these awards shows are about besides the obvious. By the time I could get out of there and get back to my hotel, I was exhausted from performing and jet lag, and my back felt like a vice clamp was crushing it. I could barely even walk. Shannon and Stevie practically carried me into the hotel. My phone battery died sometime during the evening. I plugged it in when I got back up to our room, and then I ended up falling asleep before I could call." When I don't respond, he sighs again. "Come on, Lanie. I know what you're thinking, but no. I haven't slept with Katia. I doubt I even could in the shape I was in last night."

"No?" The word comes out in a strangled, tight croak.

"No. As a matter of fact, I've barely seen her the last couple of days except when she accompanied me to the Los 40." He laughs. "Actually, she's found a way to occupy the rest of her time. Discreetly, of course—she's keeping up appearances."

"Discreetly. You mean she's met someone?" My heart soars.

"A thirty-eight-year-old Saudi oil executive named Sheikh Rafiq Omar or something like that. A billionaire, no less. Ties with the Saudi royal family. The guy's probably richer than Ivan."

"Wow." The possibility of Katia Valkov getting involved with anyone else has never crossed my mind. She's seemed to have her focus so singularly fixed on Jared. "That's an interesting development."

"Yeah. Unfortunately, while he's got an impressive investment portfolio, he's useless where her career's concerned, and that's what she's interested in the most."

"Still, it keeps her busy and out of your hair," I point out.

"Yeah, for now. We're flying to Paris in the morning, and I imagine she'll be tightening the screws all over again." He pauses. "Lanie, this...this insecurity...it isn't like you. Are you doing okay? Really? Be honest."

 _No. No, I'm not doing okay._ "I'm doing the best I can." I lay back on the bed again. "I just—this isn't easy for me. Especially when I didn't hear from you last night. I thought—" I can't finish it. I know I don't have to.

"Do you trust me that I'm telling you the truth?" Jared's voice is soft.

I swallow hard. "They say what you don't know can't hurt you. I don't know if I agree with that, because not knowing hurts pretty fucking bad. But still, Jared, if you do sleep with Katia," my voice begins to shake, "I don't want to know."

"Lanie, we agreed before I left—no secrets."

"I know." My voice is a hoarse whisper. "But—"

"Listen to me." Jared takes on a stronger tone. "I'm doing all I can to keep that from happening. I'm bunking with Shannon, I'm spending all my time with the guys and with appearances and with the press. Katia was my date for the Los 40, but we haven't spent even five seconds alone together. I hope that'll continue through the EMAs in London and then I'll be home." He pauses. "Until then, I won't let what happened last night happen again. I'll call even if I'm in screaming pain, even if I'm half asleep, even if I'm running from one appearance to another and have ten spare seconds, I'll call you."

Oh, God. I can imagine what he's thinking of me—the same thing I'm thinking of myself. When did I become so insecure, so needy? The things I detest, the things I've never  _ever_  wanted to become? "Jared, no." My resolve gains strength with my voice. "I don't want you to have to do that."

"Well, I  _want_  to have to do that, Lanie. You're my wife. We've been married for a week and this shit shouldn't even be happening. Most newlywed couples are still on their fucking honeymoon and here we are, half the world apart from each other. I'm here trying to keep sane in an insane situation, and I miss you, goddammit. So yeah, I have to."

At that, I allow myself a little smile and feel myself beginning to relax. While under the circumstances they're understandable, I kick myself for the black thoughts I've been having, and that I've burdened Jared with them. Flora's right; I married the man knowing perfectly well what the score was, and acting like a clingy whiny bitch now isn't going to change anything.

We switch from voice calling to FaceTime, and I take note of the strain and exhaustion I can see in Jared's eyes, the fine lines in their corners and the tightness of his lips that wasn't there a few days ago. This trip is taking everything out of him, and he's only a few days into it. It's evening there, and as we talk he leaves the hotel, making his way to a waiting limo that's whisking him to a restaurant where he's meeting the guys for dinner and giving an interview to a music magazine. Then in the morning, he, his bandmates and Katia are flying to Paris.

"Let Shelby know I'll get lots of pictures of the Eiffel Tower. I'd like to swing by The Louvre, too. It's so incredible there, Lanie. Being there, in the same building as all of these iconic and priceless pieces of art.  _The Mona Lisa,_ _La Belle Ferronnière,_ _Pilgrimage to Cythera_ —you'd love it. You'd love Paris, babe."

I smile a little sadly, because I know he's right. Especially about Paris, a place I've always longed to visit. France and India are the top two countries on my bucket list and I know Jared's been to India as well, having recorded some of Mars' last album,  _Love, Lust, Faith and Dreams_ there. Visiting the Himalayan region in the far north of the country, especially Kashmir, would be a dream come true. "I'd love to go with you, to see all of these places you've been," I tell him earnestly.

Jared's eyes, glowing even in the darkness with that incredible, vivid shade of blue, lock on mine through our phone screens. "You will, Lanie," he says gravely. "Believe it. When all of this shit is behind us, you will. You and Shelby both will see the world with me. That's a promise." 


	3. Jared

I can hear the screaming crowd well before our limo pulls up in front of SSE Arena in London. Despite the stereotype of English propriety and decorum, experience has taught me that British fans are easily as unruly as those found in America or anywhere else. Just look at old Beatles footage shot in the U.K. Of course, we're no McCartney, Starr, Harrison and Lennon, but we get our fair share of over-enthusiastic admirers.

I peer out the windshield of the limo at the mass of people outside the arena, and I brace myself for the crush. Next to me, Katia applies a layer of lip gloss, her face impassive. That's her latest thing, which she started in Paris. Instead of beaming for the cameras, being so obvious she may as well hang a sign screaming " _LOOK AT ME"_ around her neck, Katia's been assuming a cool, unaffected, detached air when we do these events together. It's her runway model schtick.

Whatever. I couldn't care less. I'm eager to get tonight over with, because I only have one more full night to get through after this, a photoshoot and sit-down interview with  _Man About Town_ , and then the next morning we're flying home.

It's been a hell of a long trip. I slowly turn and look out my window at the throng of fans lining the street, eager to catch a view of the dozens of celebrities arriving. They're packing both sides of the street all the way past Wembley Stadium.

Shannon must notice the way I turn my body so carefully, because he leans over and asks me if I'm all right.

Glancing around, I meet the eyes of Tomo and Stevie as well, and their expressions mirror Shannon's. Katia, busy with primping and a glass of champagne, doesn't look at anything but the compact mirror in her hand. Wearing a plum and sequinned gown from Versace and dripping with diamonds, her hair done in an upsweep, Katia's dressed as though she's a leading Oscar contender. By contrast, my chosen outfit made her roll her eyes and voice a litany of insults.

I have zero fucks to give about her opinion. I'm in agony, and it's a miracle I'm even showing up to this thing. So what if it's in blaze orange track pants, a pink oversized women's blouse, and pale lavender blazer with an enormous flower festooned to the lapel? Oh, and I mustn't forget the white sneakers, the ultimate red carpet faux pas. According to Katia, anyway.

"The massage earlier didn't help at all?" Tomo asks, his dark eyes full of concern.

Grimacing, I admit,"Truthfully? The massage felt pretty good, but no, it didn't help. Not really."

Shannon shakes his head and looks grim. "The minute we get back to L.A. you're going to make an appointment with Dr. Lange."

I'm saved from answering as the limo slows to barely a crawl. Outside it, on either side of the red carpet, London policemen and security struggle to keep the crowd behind the barricades. On the carpet itself stand a clutch of celebrities being interviewed by members of the media, all of whom are dressed in tuxes and gowns. Cameras click and flashbulbs explode.

The limo comes to a complete stop and a uniformed attendant leaps to open the door on Shannon's side. He emerges first, wearing an outfit more suitable for a member of the IRA than an awards event—camo denim jacket, graphic print t-shirt, snug-fitting black denim jeans and black boots. Behind him is Tomo, similarly garbed, though instead of camo, he's wearing a Gucci suit coat. Stevie's next, in faux dark brown leather, a crisp white button down shirt and black silk slacks.

The crowd goes wild as they emerge from the car, and then it's my turn. Slowly, stiffly, I get out of the limo, my back screeching the entire way. Shannon, who's waited right by the door for me, surreptitiously aids me to my feet. I clench my teeth while the mob goes totally berserk.

"Okay?" Shannon asks quietly.

Wearing the lavender jacket like a cape over my shoulders, I give him a short nod. We begin to make our way to the entrance of the SSE Arena. My gait is stiff, and turning to wave to the fans requires me to turn my entire upper body. I plaster on a smile as I do so, but it's not easy.

"Thanks a lot, asshole!" Katia appears at my side suddenly, her green eyes blazing.

"What?" I mutter, smile firmly in place.

"Were you raised by wolves? You're supposed to help a lady from the car!" she hisses indignantly in my ear.

"Lady?  _What_  lady?" I retort as we proceed up the carpet toward the official photo area where dozens of media are already snapping pictures of other attendees.

Katia fixes me with a look. In her stiletto heels, she's a good two inches taller than me. "Be careful, Jared," she says slowly. Her eyes and her voice are like ice, cutting through the imperious model expression. "Be very careful."

All around us the crowd swells against the barricades, cameras are shoved at us, and a deafening chorus of voices—fans, paparazzi, and media alike—scream my name. My head begins to ache, my back spasms, my right leg thumps and throbs, and Katia's long polished nails dig into my arm in a possessive grip. In the face of the suffocating chaos I smile and wave, as do my bandmates. Positioned near the entrance of the arena, security guards watch the proceedings with matching bored expressions, unimpressed with all the glitz and glamour. 

Fame. It really sucks sometimes.

 

***

 

Our final night in Paris, Katia finally caught me. We were staying in the Plaza Athénée and Katia insisted we take an evening stroll along the Avenue Montaigne. "We have barely been seen together except the Los 40 Awards in Madrid," she complained bitterly. "Following you around all of these tacky tourist traps with your whole entourage doesn't count. We need to be more visible as a couple."

Only Katia Valkov would consider The Louvre a tourist trap. Or Le Bataclan, site of the November 2015 massacre during an Eagles of Death Metal concert and a venue we'd played just prior to the tragedy. The four of us along with Danica and Carrie stopped to lay flowers and pay our respects, while Katia hovered in the background with an irritated look on her face.

Reluctantly I agreed to take a short walk with her down the Avenue Montaigne, though my leg throbbed dully and my back was spasming. At least it was a nice evening, and I do love Paris. The architecture, the sounds, the smells, the whole vibe of the city.

Sure enough, a smattering of paparazzi lurked around the hotel and they tailed us all the way to Avenue des Champs-Élysées, snapping pictures steadily. Instead of acknowledging them as she usually did, Katia tucked her arm in mine and assumed a regal air, walking sedately by my side. "This aloof attitude is much more appealing, lends an air of mystery," she confided, as though I gave a damn. "It makes the public want to know more about me." She threw me a side-eye. "You could at least look like you're enjoying yourself a little."

Fat chance. But I made an attempt to remove what seemed like a permanent scowl from my face, and managed to replace it with a neutral, if not pleasant, expression.

Beyond that, we made little conversation until we were nearly back to the hotel. Then, out of nowhere, she dropped the bomb.

"We're going to fuck," she husked in my ear. "Tonight."

My stomach dropped, and I didn't say anything at first. I was too busy considering a number of replies.  _Hell to the fuck no_  being foremost among them. Finally, I cleared my throat, my heart beating fast. "I thought your new friend had scratched that itch."

Katia gave me a slanted grin. She has this infuriating way of curling her lip that annoys me to no end. "You wish," she murmured. "Right?"

"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do," I retorted, in no mood for her bullshit.

"Well, Rafiq is not here.  _You_  are. And don't forget that you have an agreement to adhere to."

I snorted with humorless laughter. "Like I could forget?"

The curled lip remained. She strode toward the hotel entrance, where a uniformed doorman opened the door for us. "My suite in twenty minutes," she ordered as she stepped into the opulent lobby and started for the elevator bank. "You're not hiding in your brother's room tonight, Jared. I've let it go until now, but enough is enough." Tossing her long, caramel colored hair over her shoulder, she stepped into the open elevator. Reluctantly, I followed.

Back in mine and Shannon's suite, I went into the bathroom. I glanced at the glassed-in shower stall and decided the hell with it. I was not about to go to any effort for Katia Valkov. If she wanted me so badly, she'd have me just as I am. I didn't even brush my teeth.

Instead, I stared into the mirror at my reflection, wondering if I'll ever be able to look at myself again if I go through with this. If I'll be able to look my wife in the eye again.

The face staring back at me looked more than a touch jaded, and showed clear signs of wear and tear. At almost forty-six, I was finally starting to look somewhere near my age. I felt every single minute of it, and then some.

_I can't. I cannot do this._

_You_ have _to do this._

_I can't._

_Katia will destroy you if you don't._

_Let her. Maybe Lanie was right when she said nobody would care in this day and age._

_Yeah. Right. You've seen yourself what's happened to actors who've come out. And how many successful openly gay or bi rock stars are there? Care to count?_

_And...there's Kristov. Despite the unconscionable thing he's done_ ,  _what you and he had was powerful, and it was real. How will he feel if you publicly dismiss him as some kind of a diversion that you regret_ — _which, if the truth comes out, is how your team will demand you paint him?_

_Oh, God._

"Bro, what are you doing in there?" Shannon called out right outside the door. "I need to use the john."

Shit. Sighing, I threw open the bathroom door and slipped past him, heading for the door of the suite.

"Where are  _you_  off to?" Shannon wanted to know.

"Got some stuff to take care of," I muttered.

 

Katia was waiting for me, and she didn't waste any time. The instant I knocked she flung open the door, wearing nothing but a smile, and dragged me inside.

Maybe it was God, maybe it was guilt or anger, maybe it was because my back was on fire, maybe it was a combination of all of these things, but I couldn't get it up. Nothing Katia did from the moment she yanked my track pants and underwear down _—_ kissing me,stroking me, sucking me _—_ nothing worked. Her frustration mounted, as did my anxiety, because unhappy Katia is dangerous Katia.

But for some inexplicable reason, Katia didn't pursue it. Abruptly she stepped away from me. I pulled my clothing back into position as she shrugged her robe on, went to the bar and poured herself a drink. She sat there gazing out the window at the fairyland of city lights beyond it. "I know you hate me, Jared," she murmured.

 _Tread carefully._ "I think," I said slowly, "that your ambition for stardom has clouded your judgment."

"Mmm." She sipped her cognac and didn't look at me. "You believe you're in love with that woman living with you, don't you?" Katia's eyes swiveled to me and a bitter smile crossed her lips. "And that sad little fool is obviously in love with you, in spite of knowing that you like  _men."_  The smile became a derisive laugh.

"She accepts me the way I am," I bit out. "And being bisexual isn't a crime, Katia, in case you've been under a rock for the last couple of decades."

"Ha! Then why are you so desperate to keep it a secret?" she countered. "I'll tell you why. Because your career is more important to you than anything else in the world, including your relationship with that...that  _woman._  Your status means more. Your  _image_  means more. So you see, you and I aren't that different, darling." Katia drained her glass and immediately refilled it, and I wondered how much she'd already had to drink before I arrived. "You may as well admit it and stop acting like you're some kind of victim in all of this. You're just as self-serving as I am."

"We couldn't be more different," I growled. "I've never used people to boost my career, Katia. I never had to. I  _worked_  for it."

"Oh?" Katia arched an eyebrow and sipped her drink.

"Yeah."

"Cameron Diaz. Does that name ring a bell?"

I clenched my teeth. "Cameron? You think I  _used_  Cameron? You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Katia set her glass on the bar. She got up from the barstool and pointed a long, red-tipped finger at me. Her voice suddenly became strident. "Back then, you were a nothing. A  _nobody._  A two-bit actor no one paid attention to until you hooked up with her. Cameron is the one who put you on the map in Hollywood." She shook her head. "And how did you repay her? By fucking anything that moved, and when your profile was high enough, you dumped her. This is common information. It's Hollywood  _trivia._ So don't you go getting all self-righteous with  _me,_  Jared."

Red spots floated before my eyes. "You don't know shit about it! So take your 'common information' and shove it straight up your ass, you ignorant bitch." Shaking with anger, I started for the door.

There was an explosion of breaking glass right next to my head. Automatically, I raised my arm to shield my face from the fragments flying all around me.

"Bastard! You're a son of a bitch, a low-life piece of  _shit!"_  Katia spat, her Russian accent becoming more pronounced with every epithet.

"Charming. And you expected me to get it up?" I fired back.

As I opened the door, she rasped, "You asshole! You _—_ youlimp-dick  _pedik!_  You know what I can do to you. So don't you fuck with  _me._  I'm warning you, Jared. Next time, you'd  _better_  be able to perform."

 _There won't be a next time,_  I vowed as I hurried back to Shannon's suite as fast as my body would allow me to go.  _No matter what I have to do, Katia Valkov will never touch me again._

 

***

 

I sit rigidly in my chair, my back not allowing me the slightest move to lean back and relax. I find it hurts less if I sit ramrod straight on the chair's edge. I've been that way all night, earning more than one odd look cast in my direction. Inwardly I cringe every time I feel the camera on me as it sweeps the audience, and then locks in on us as 30 Seconds to Mars is announced as one of the nominees for Best Alternative.

"Good luck, guys," Lana Del Rey murmurs behind us. I detect a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

"Good luck to you, too," Tomo offers sincerely, seemingly oblivious to the tension between us and Lana. Next to him and seated directly in front of Lana, Shannon scowls.

I understand. Shannon and Lana dated a few years ago and their breakup was, to say the least, bitter. Hard feelings still linger all this time later, and now here we are _—_ nominated in the same category and sitting in the same section of the theater. Who the fuck had arranged the seating, anyway?

Shannon and I lock eyes as Nathalie Emmanuel and James Bay stand on the stage and present the names of the nominees. We continue holding one another's gaze and then Nathalie calls the winner.

"30 Seconds to  _Mars!"_

Well, holy shit. We did it. We actually won this award without putting out more than one single in nearly half a decade. How about that.

"Congratulations," Katia drawls. She's applauding. Behind Shannon, Lana is applauding too, but her face is a thundercloud.

Shannon catches the icy glare of his ex-girlfriend and he grins back at her.  _Can't win 'em all, babe,_ that grin says.

As we get to our feet and make our way to the stage, I wonder if Lanie and Shelby are watching. In a way, I hope they're not. I know I look just about as lousy as I feel.

I manage to give an acceptance speech to be proud of, and then later, I am whisked backstage to change clothes. I'm presenting the Icon award to U2, and I'm more than a little nervous about it. U2 is fucking legendary, and one of my biggest musical heroes. I dress in a much more somber, conservative ensemble and I sweat and my back spasms and my leg throbs dully until it's time to take the stage once again.

 

***

 

Two overly endowed and overserved teenage girls dance the night away beneath the sparkle of overhead lights. Around them, an assortment of scurvy-looking men, both young and old, prowl about hoping for a score of one kind or another.

Katia and my bandmates have all vanished into the thick of the crowd, but I don't mingle at the after-party. First of all, my back is getting steadily worse, and second of all, I don't have to. As I sit there alone people-watching and texting with Lanie, bevy of jeweled and designer-dressed people, both male and female, stop at my table to pay their respects.

"Loved, loved,  _loved_   _Blade Runner 2049_ ," an aging but still-stunning Italian film director gushes. He looks familiar and I smile and murmur my thanks, all the while trying to place him. Then he adds, "Lallo said that if I see you, he sends his regards."

Bingo! The film director is a friend of Alessandro Michele's, Creative Director for Gucci and a good friend of mine. I grin. "How is he?"

"He's doing very well. He will be in America in December. Los Angeles. Working on a new campaign with that singer, Lana I believe? She was nominated with you."

"I'd heard something about that," I murmur. "I'll be sure to look him up while he's in town _—_ " my voice cuts off abruptly as a tall man with long jet black hair turns a little, his profile coming into my view.

My throat constricts. My stomach gives a lurch like I'm on a rollercoaster. The music fades to a dull thumping sound, or perhaps it's my heart that's pounding in my ears. The chatter and laughter of the guests diminishes to a faraway drone. I no longer hear the Italian film director, who's moved on from Alessandro Michele to talking about a script I absolutely must take a look at, perhaps at lunch tomorrow. My eyes are fixed on the raven-haired man across the room.

Then slowly, as if he senses he's being observed, the man turns and meets my gaze.

"Kristov," I whisper in a thin, shaking voice. My phone on the table buzzes with a text notification. I barely notice.

As if he hears me, Kristov inclines his head in a slow nod, and then turns back to his companion _—_ another model from the looks of him. Young. Longish chestnut hair a shade darker than my own. Finely chiseled cheekbones, thin aquiline nose, piercing eyes, and a strong jawline.

Then Kristov is walking toward me, cutting through the crowd as gracefully as a panther. Exotic. Beautiful. Intoxicating.

But watching Kristov as he approaches me, I feel nothing but blinding rage.

"Jared," he says. "I — it's nice to see you again."

I struggle to my feet and meet his gaze levelly. "Kristov. We need to talk."

Kristov raises an eyebrow and glances behind him at his companion before he answers,  "Of course. What about?"

"You  _know_  what about." I look around the ballroom, my gaze landing on the man Kristov was talking to before he walked over to me. The man is watching us, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. I turn my attention back to Kristov, but I can still feel the man's hostile gaze boring into me. "Not here. Follow me."

I feel Kristov's presence behind me as I cross the room, making my way toward a quiet alcove near the restrooms. It's not as private and secluded as I'd like, but it'll have to do.

I nod and greet an assortment of celebrities and hangers-on as I go, finally making it to the alcove. I duck behind a huge bushy plant and turn to face my ex-lover.

With no preamble I blurt out, "Why did you do it, Kristov? Why did you give Katia those pictures?"

At once, a look of understanding and something like pain crosses Kristov's face. "I suspected that was what this is about. I had no choice, Jared. I didn't want to give them to her. I didn't know what she wanted with them, but she was adamant about getting them. I should've known, and I'm sorry."

"You had no choice." I shake my head. "My life is hell because of those fucking pictures! How can you say you had no choice?"

Kristov sighs and looks down at his hands, which are wringing themselves together. A flash of something gleams on one of them and I look closer. There's a gold band with several diamonds on the ring finger of his left hand, and the gems catch the light with his movements.

"You're married," I say. My head throbs dully.

"Yes. I recently married. That's why I had no choice. Katia refused to give me the divorce so that I could be free to marry Alex unless I gave her the photos and negatives." Kristov's voice is quiet and he doesn't meet my eyes.

"Alex. Is that the man you're here with?" I ask.

Kristov looks up from his hands and his dark eyes capture mine. There's a flash of something in them. Vulnerable, regret, or sadness, I'm not sure. It's swept away as he lifts his chin in what looks like defiance as he affirms, "Yes. He's a good man. An attorney."

I nod. "I'm happy for you. I'm glad you came to America where you're finally free to be who you are and love who you love openly." I draw a ragged breath. "But when you gave Katia the photos of us, you locked me into a situation I don't know how to escape from. Because I can't be open with who I am." I swallow hard. "I'm being blackmailed, Kristov. Katia's holding those pictures over my head. She's using me to propel her career, she wants me to sleep with her, putting pressure on me more every damn day. If I don't go along with everything she wants, she'll release those pictures to the media. Kris, I'm—I have a woman I love who's going through a living nightmare because of this. Because of what you did." I look away. "I just wanted you to know that."

I turn to leave, and Kristov's hand on my shoulder stops me. "Jared," he murmurs, "I'm sorry." His smooth, warm hand caresses my cheek. "I wish I could help you, but I can't. What's done is done."

I stare at him, at his flawless, beautiful face, his sorrow-filled eyes, and my fury bubbles to the surface once again. "What's done is done. Is that the best you can do? My life is going to shit thanks to you, and all you can say is what's done is  _done?"_

"What else  _can_  I say?" Kristov demands. "Your life's going to shit thanks to  _me? You're_  the one who wanted that photoshoot with me, Jared.  _You're_  the one who gave me those pictures.  _You're_ the one who fucked Katia in Rome and got yourself into this predicament!"

"Forget it," I snap, jerking away from him. I bite back a yell of pain as a white-hot bolt shoots through my back. "Good night, Kristov. Go back to your husband and be happy. At least  _one_  of us gets to be."

"Jared _—_ "

I leave the alcove and make my way to my table without looking back. 


	4. Lanie

Getting papped is a strange experience. Strange, harrowing, and thoroughly scary when you're not used to it. I'd thought with Jared in Europe and being photographed with Katia in each city they've been to, that I would've become persona-non-grata to the tabloids and subsequently left alone.

I should have known better. Even with Jared out of the country, the compound is fair game. Especially when the woman he was photographed having sex with in his pool comes and goes from the compound while he's off in Europe with another woman. Gossip fodder, indeed.

Before he flew to Madrid, Jared asked the two bodyguards he'd brought in for me and Shelby to stay at the compound during his absence. David and Gene are good guys; unobtrusive, but good at what they do. Even with Todd in jail and about to be extradited to Minnesota to face a number of charges there, David and Gene accompany Shelby to school and back, and they go with me anytime I leave the property. No longer in protection from Todd, but from the vultures swooping in hoping for a juicy scoop on an A-list celebrity.

At first, David and Gene's constant presence shadowing me was irritating as hell. I couldn't fathom why someone like me would need security detail when I'm by myself, but it soon became very clear that I did. Not only outside of Bouchon, the night Katia and Ivan Valkov's blackmail was revealed, but every time I have gone out in public since first being papped with Jared. I've had perfect strangers try to come up to me firing questions, paparazzi, and on a couple of occasions, legit news reporters. Me of all people, suddenly the target of so many journalists? It's surreal. I've had to learn to spot them quickly and escape. With the help of our security detail, I've been successful so far.

Frankly, the whole fame thing sucks. I don't know how Jared's lived with this as long as he has, because just a few weeks' worth has made me come close to snapping like I did outside Bouchon, when I grabbed a pap's camera and smashed it on the sidewalk.

Stepping out of the supermarket this Saturday morning, I spot the pap at the same time David and Gene do. "Shit," David mutters as a man toting a camera with a high-power lens appears from behind a parked car and hurries in our direction, taking pictures the whole way. "I know this guy. He's a major contributor to ONTD. Head down, Lanie. Don't look at him."

Oh, wonderful. ONTD is the same tabloid that Todd sent the pool pictures to. I duck my head, covered in one of Jared's ball caps, and shove my sunglasses up to shield my eyes. Clutching my bag of groceries, I allow Gene and David to hustle me into David's white BMW.

I can just imagine what the articles are saying, not to mention the commenters and the fans of Jared and Mars. No, I haven't yet caved in to my curiosity and gone online to read the gossip myself, but with each passing day I'm becoming more tempted. I suppose it's natural when every move your husband makes is news. I suppose it's even more natural when your presence in his life is questioned and speculated about. And yet even more natural when your husband is currently out of the country with another woman.

Once I'm safely home and the groceries are put away, I take my phone into the living room, sit on the big red sofa, and study the screen. I've become adept enough with my iPhone that I can browse the web without difficulty—almost as well as Shelby can. Funny, how kids can pick up newfangled technology so quickly. Before coming to California, neither of us had had much use for any of this stuff. My ignorance was so great that Flora had had to explain to me what social media was, and helped me create accounts on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat and Instagram. I have yet to use any of them, however. I wouldn't really know how to.

 _Don't do it!_ I can almost hear both Flora and Jared say. So far I've heeded those warnings—what's been seen can't be unseen and all that—but before I can stop myself, I open a search and begin to browse.

Within minutes I wish I hadn't.

It's odd how the internet takes over a person's mind. You might start out googling a recipe or something, and the next thing you know you're on YouTube watching gangsta cat voice-overs, with no idea how you've gotten there. In my case, the path was a bit more of a direct route. I went from pictures of Jared, Katia, and the guys on the Red Carpet at the EMAs yesterday, to a video of them walking into the arena, Katia absolutely stunning in a purple glittering creation. She strode about with a rather detached expression, but the whole time she clung to Jared's arm with a tight, possessive grip that makes me clench my teeth.

Knowing Jared as I do, it's immediately clear he's unwell, just as he'd said via text yesterday while he was at the after-party. Even if he hadn't told me himself, I'd know by looking at this evidence. The video and photos say it all. He's not only in a great deal of physical pain, he's stressed out, too. I can tell the guys know it by the way they seem to rally around him. Shannon especially.

From the photos and video I jump down to the comments. Oh, God. Yep, major mistake.

_—JFC! 30 STM beat Lana Del Rey, Imagine Dragons, Lorde, and The XX? WTF!!??_

_—I love how he pretends to be a rockstar and not an actor. El. Oh. El._

_—OFFS, what is he still doing with that vapid fame-ho Katia Valkov??? She's like in her mid or late twenties AFAIK. Jared's almost forty-six, super successful, and he seems really intelligent and deep, so...what could they possibly have in common?_

_—Exactly. This._

_—Oh, come on. I think they make a beautiful couple. Katia's gorgeous, he's gorgeous, so why not get together and make gorgeous babies? The man has to settle down sometime, so it might as well be with her._

_—They've been together for a while now. She's stuck around longer than anyone, even after Jared cheated on her after his accident. Katia took care of him and at the first opportunity while she was in New York working, he bangs PoolGirl. What a dick move! Given his douchebag behavior with women, I sure wouldn't be jealous. I kinda feel sorry for her, tbh._

_—I'm NOT jealous. It's just weird to me. Especially since PoolGate. I stand by my assertion that Katia Valkov is using Jared. Before he dated her, no one ever heard of her. Since they started dating she started getting big name modeling gigs. So yeah. Fake relationship All. The. Way. She's using him for publicity and that's it._

_—You just defeated your whole argument. Katia's got a successful modeling career now, so what if Jared helped boost her profile? Maybe he wanted to b/c he cares about her and wants to help her. If that was all there was to their dating then WHY IS SHE STILL WITH HIM!?_

_—Whatever. I'm *Team PoolGirl.* At least SHE doesn't look young enough to be his daughter. I think she's a mom too, which is super cool. I think that was her daughter in the pics._

_—That was her daughter. I think both PoolGirl and her daughter live with Jared. IDK, she might be an assistant we don't know about, or maybe a housekeeper?? Whatever she is, she sure gets some nice bennies out of the deal, eh? LOL *not jealous, repeat, NOT jealous* oh who tf am I kidding...I'm insanely jealous. I need a job like that. Maybe he's hiring more??!! hahaha...._

_—WUT...wait, back up....they LIVE with him? OK, how tf do u know this...???_

_—The little girl has been seen leaving the compound with Jimmy's kid. They're buddies. I think she goes to school right there by Jared's house, too. PoolGirl has been seen there more than that one time, and recently, like within this past week. Leaving with Jimmy and those two new security guys, going to the store and stuff while J's been in Europe._

_—Huh. That's weird af if that's true. WTF is he doing? Starting a fucking harem? Ugh._

_—Jared's always had a harem. Always. Always younger girls, tho, so...I don't think PoolGirl qualifies. She's about fifteen years too old for J. I think he just hit it because he was horny, she was there & Katia wasn't._

 

It goes on and on. And then, somewhere in the list of over two hundred comments, one stops me in my tracks. It's brand new, just posted a couple of hours ago.

The comment reads:

_— My Friend and I Fucked Jared Leto last night after the EMA's!!! Click here for the story!_

The taste of something acrid fills my mouth, but I tap the link on my phone screen. And venture into my first gossip board, SoScandalous.com

The first post was written by someone named Mila and features a photo. In it, sure enough, is Jared. By his attire I know it was taken last night in London. He doesn't look well at all. His smile is a ghost of its usual self, his eyes are dark with shadows around them. Flanking him on either side are two young girls of maybe sixteen or seventeen, with matching blonde hair and matching huge boobs straining against their low-cut slinky dresses.

_This is me and my friend Hailee with Jared. We went to the EMA's and the after-party. OMG it was awesome! We danced and flirted with sooooo many famous guys, but we both knew who we wanted. Mr. Jared Leto....so yeah we danced and waitted until he was sitting by himself to approach him. That's when this pic was taken. After this, we danced with him, he's a goofy dancer. Then he asked who we were here with. Hailee explained that her uncle works for MTV and is one of the production managers for the EMA's. Jared seemed kind of impressed by that haha. Then he asked if we'd like to go back to his hotel and hang with him in his room. Hailee and I just looked at each other like RU KIDDING? We're IN!_

_So we went back to his room. So his room is super posh and it had a bar so yeah of course we're not going to say no when he offered us a drink. He never asked us how old we are and that's a good thing. We're bloody fifteen and sixteen hahaha....but last night dressed as we were I guess we did look older than that. So ,well we all had a nice buzz going and joked around with him. Flirting started and finally we got down to business. And I mean business. He was bloody unstoppable. Pretty rough, too. Too rough, kind of. Hailee and I aren't virgins but were not really used to that kind of thing. But Jared was all out. Fucked us both within an inch of our lives! So yeah. The rumours are true. That's all I am gonna say, ladies, The rumours are true._

"You lying little bitch," I whisper, my hands shaking as fury builds in the pit of my stomach. I'm so tempted to leave a comment calling this girl out I almost have to physically restrain myself.

But what could I even say? Let's see...Nice try, you delusional bimbette...Jared and I were in almost constant communication until late at night London time. From the moment he arrived at the after-party until he said goodnight via FaceTime in his and Shannon's suite, there was only maybe an hour's pause and that was before he'd even left the party. Your story is a bald-faced lie.

Right. That would do exactly nothing besides add fuel to what looks like an already red-hot post judging by the number of comments it's already gotten, and besides, commenting would require me to register as a user of the site. No way in hell am I doing that.

Sighing, I glance through the comments other users have left. It's a mixed bag; some believe her, calling Jared a litany of awful names for having sex with two drunk teenage girls. Others call the story a load of crap, inciting an argument that carries through a couple dozen comments. Katia's name is bandied about by both sides.

 _LOL!!!_ one comment replied. _"If Jared was gonna shag a fan or two, he'd first have to sneak away from Katia and his bandmates to do it. I notice you never mentioned any of them. Besides, if Jared was going to go to all that trouble just to fuck a couple of fans, he'd pick better than you two deformed dogs! I call bullshit!"_

"Mila" comments again. _Believe what you want. I know it happened, I was there for fucks sake. So, yeah. Sod off u jealous old hag!!_

I shake my head in a kind of morbid amazement. Jesus. This is insane. Having seen more than enough, I close the page and toss my phone on the couch beside me, wishing I'd never looked at any of it.

Jared has said that there are a lot of stories out there about him. Having seen just this one, I can about imagine what else is out there. But the last thing I want is to dig up any more of that garbage. I berate myself for having gone there in the first place.

 

***

 

"Oh, geez," Flora groans when she arrives later in the day to pick up Magda, whose Escalade is in the shop getting an alignment done. "Lanie, how many times did I tell you? Do not go snooping around gossip sites!"

"I know," I mumble, wishing I hadn't mentioned anything to Flora about my foray which took me to SoScandalous.com. "What's seen can't be unseen. I know." I sigh. "I know now, anyway."

Magda chuckles. "A lot of women go on those kinds of sites and social media claiming to have slept with him. Dozens and dozens. My favorite is one from a couple of years ago about the Halloween orgy."

I look up at him quickly. "Halloween orgy?"

"Oh, God." Flora shakes her head. "Yes. We were both here, and I can assure you that while things got a little loud and the valet outfit Jared hired didn't know their ass from their elbow and pissed off everyone in the neighborhood by blocking the streets the way they parked cars, no orgy took place."

"People have vivid imaginations," Magda says. "Especially with the anonymity of the internet giving them the freedom to claim whatever they want. Jared's never been a saint, no, and over the years sometimes I've wondered if he perpetuated a kind of wild bad-boy image deliberately. Especially in his younger years. But you know him well enough now to know who he really is."

I nod. "Of course I do. And I know first-hand what that girl claimed on that Scandalous site is a complete fabrication." I jump up and pace the living room. "But how can I not say something? People are actually believing this stuff and vilifying him! It makes me sick!"

As the three of us walk through the foyer, Flora sighs. "Better grow a few more layers of skin or you'll drive yourself crazy. There's no stopping it. All celebrities get hit with rumors and lies. Just like the paparazzi, stuff like this is part of being famous. Jared's learned to live with and ignore these stories about him, and he's basically unscathed by them. I mean, none of it has hurt him professionally, has it? It's gone on for years, yet the guy is hotter and more in-demand than ever."

When I'm silent at this, both Flora and Magda glance at me. I know what they're thinking. The same thing I'm thinking—that the explosive secret about Jared's past relationship with Kristov Belneczek, if revealed, might be the undoing of his in-demand hotness.

"I wasn't all that shocked about it. I guess I long suspected," she says now as we walk outside. Magda gets in the car, but Flora lags behind, her attention on me. "Jared's kind of gender-neutral in a way. Fluid, I guess you could call it. He's always had that vibe. Plus the man is drop-dead beautiful, and I personally know dozens of gay guys who crush on him as hard as any straight woman does, in part because he's so—I don't know—he's got that air about him. It's almost tangible. The fact that he is attracted to men and has been involved sexually with a man doesn't surprise me all that much."

"But do you really think this getting out would damage his career as much as he thinks it would?" I ask.

Flora shrugs. "I doubt fans would leave in droves. Not hardcore Echelon, anyway. Sure, some people would be turned off because we've still got homophobic idiots out there just like we've still got white supremacists out there. But the entertainment industry itself is a funny thing, Lanie. Hollywood is supposed to be so liberal-minded and accepting, yet we've got some real old-school bigots running things at the top. A guy like Jared being an out bisexual would be problematic."

"I don't get it. How does being bisexual have anything to do with his acting talent?"

Flora leans against her car, studying me. "It doesn't, of course. But the industry executives don't care how talented or accomplished he is. They'll look at Jared and think, 'Hm, do we want a guy who has this sex scandal with a man in the role of a heterosexual lead character? You know, kissing the leading lady, having sex with the leading lady? Or worse, in some kind of action role? How would the public react to that?' Her smile is a trifle bitter. "Even though a good percentage of them wouldn't bat an eye, that's what these guys in the industry ask themselves. Even in the age of legalized same-sex marriage and all these civil protections in place for LGBTQ people now, it's still perceived negatively in the entertainment industry."

"You think they'd typecast him?" I ask. "That's what Jared said."

"Possibly. He might lose out on leading roles, ones that casting directors are beating down his door about now, and end up relegated to supportive or background characters—which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I mean, he won an Oscar for a supportive role, right? But an actor like Jared, with his body of work thus far—he wouldn't tolerate being pigeonholed, and in his mind it would be a career-killer, ultimately. It would take any joy of acting away from him."

I can see how that would be, and Flora's words mirror Jared's own on the subject. I sigh and say, "So, I guess he's not just being paranoid about it."

"Nope." Flora gets in her car. Fastening her seat belt, she looks up at me. "When's he due back from London again?"

"Tomorrow," I answer. "Finally. It's been a long week and a half. Too long."

Flora smiles and drops a wink. "You'll be out of touch for at least a couple of days, I take it."

I look over toward the pool as I hear Shelby's voice. Immediately she and Tyrell appear, rounding the corner from Jimmy and Ty's house in the back of the compound. Nodding toward them, I murmur, "Well, I'll have some competition for his attention. Shelby's missed him a lot."

"Hey, Flora!" Shelby calls as she and Tyrell hurry over.

"Hey, Shelby," Flora calls back. "What are you two up to?"

"Gonna go in the tower and play video games." She looks at me. "Can I eat over at Ty's tonight?"

I glance at Tyrell. "Is your dad okay with that?"

Ty nods. "He's barbecuing steaks."

I smile. Shelby hasn't been able to adapt to the vegan diet Jared adheres to and I've gotten on board with as well. A die-hard carnivore, my kid is. "I suppose so," I consent.

"I'll call in a few days," Flora says as Magda puts the car in drive. I wave, they wave back, and I follow Shelby and Tyrell into the house.

Since this Saturday I didn't take part in the deep cleaning, I do a walk-through with the housekeepers before they leave for the day. Seeing for myself everything's in order, I go to the tower, feeling a sense of restlessness and anxiety returning. There's no reason for it, at least none that I can identify. Jared began texting in the morning London time, then sporadically as he had an interview and photo shoot, but nothing since then. It's late at night there now, and I had expected our nightly FaceTime session.

I'm worried about him, and for once my worry has nothing to do with Katia. The pain he was in the night of the EMA's concerns me. I saw the show, noting the way he sat on the edge of his chair, the way he turned his whole body to speak to someone. Though he downplayed it when we talked, his whole demeanor told me something else.

I force myself to go to bed at a decent hour. I still haven't heard from Jared, and the unwanted suspicions are starting to creep in again along with concern for his physical condition. Even though I went through this before so needlessly, it's difficult keeping those dark thoughts at bay. And so it's with a troubled mind that I finally drift off.

Seemingly minutes later, I'm startled awake. My eyes pop open and I stare at nothing but near-darkness, but something's...off. Something's different. My sleepy mind struggles to right itself as I try to figure out what it was that awakened me so suddenly.

Something moves behind me. First a hand, then an arm encircles my waist.

That's when it registers.I'm not alone in the bed.

I jerk away from the hand and sit up, staring down at the man next to me, clad in nothing but a pair of black underwear. "What the—"

Jared smiles up at me. "Surprise."

My eyes wide with shock, I smile back, and then laugh, flinging myself back into his embrace. Caught between laughing and sobbing, I do a little of both as I absorb his warmth, his strength, his very presence after going for what seems like forever without it. His arms tighten around me as I cry, "Oh, my God! Jared! How? You're—you're not supposed to be home until tomorrow!"

"I couldn't wait, and so I took the earliest flight I could. Jesus Christ, Lanie, I missed you, I mean, look at me—I'm so fucking happy to be home, I'm fucking bawling."

He's crying, too? I pull away from him just enough so I can look at his face. The wetness shimmers around his eyes and I reach out to wipe the tears away. "I missed you, too," I murmur. "I can't believe you came home early. You must have gone right from the photo shoot to the airport."

Jared sniffles and nods. "Yeah, that's exactly what I did." He touches my cheek. "I only told Shannon, and asked him to tell everyone else. I just didn't see the point in waiting around when I could be on my way home, when I could be doing this so much sooner." He pulls me close and his mouth finds mine.

Well, once more there's a perfectly justified explanation for why I didn't hear from him. Kicking myself for my suspicions again, I melt into Jared's kiss, relishing the softness of his lips, the caress of his tongue on mine, the warmth of his breath, the way his beard and mustache tickle my skin. His nearness and the heat in his gaze make the last ten lonely and anxiety-filled days dissolve like a passing puff of wind. "How are you feeling?" I whisper. "Your back and leg? How are they?"

"Shot to shit," he replies with a sigh. "Shannon made me promise to make an appointment with Dr. Lange first thing Monday morning."

"Good," I nod. "I've been worried sick. I saw the EMA's."

Jared closes his eyes. "Oh. Yeah. It was bad that whole day." Opening them again, he adds, "It's nowhere near that bad now. Just being here with you in our bed has taken a lot of it away already."

I stroke his disheveled hair. "I love you."

Jared kisses me again. "And I love you." Then his eyes gleam with a look I know well. "What do you say we actually get on with having some kind of honeymoon?"

"What—right now?"

His gaze burns into me. "Right the fuck now."

"But—your back and leg—"

"The hell with my back and leg," he growls. His hands begin roaming under my oversized t-shirt. "I want to make love to my wife who I haven't seen in a week and a half. My back and leg will just have to deal with it."

I smile shyly. "I could—you know—be on top. Like we did in Oak Creek Canyon."

"I love the sound of that," Jared murmurs. He hooks his fingers in my panties. With a mischievous grin he asks, "How many pairs will this make?"

"Twelve, I think," I answer.

"Twelve, huh?" With a sharp tear, they're ripped from my body. My t-shirt soon joins the tattered panties on the floor. So does Jared's underwear. Both of us are naked now, and it's as though we can't get enough contact with each other. Arms and legs entwined, hands everywhere, mouths fused together, heat building second by second into a roaring inferno of need.

Jared runs a hand along my bare torso, sliding upward to cup my breast before lowering his head to it, capturing the firm, taut peak in his mouth.

"Ja—Jared", I gasp, writhing under the torment of his lips and tongue. "I – need you, I need more—please—" my words dissolve and become a soft cry when his hand slides between my thighs, where I'm burning, needing. His fingers slip inside me, adding intensity to the fire already fueling my racing heart.

"I want you," Jared whispers."All of you, I want to drown in you."

"Condom—" I hiss, hardly able to catch my breath.

"Yeah. Got it." There's a pause as Jared attends to it swiftly. Seconds later, I roll him to his back, positioned above him. He reaches up, grasps my hair and pulls me down to kiss him. His other hand guides his cock as I sink down on his length slowly. I let out a whimper, the way he fills me so completely leaves me trembling just with his entry.

"Oh God...." he breathes. "Just to warn you...I probably won't last long."

"We've got all night," I whisper back. I begin slowly to move. Jared grasps my hips with both hands, helping guide the rhythm, setting our pace. Even like this, with me on top, he takes control. Our eyes meet, his heavy-lidded and burning with unsatisfied desire.

"You're beautiful," Jared whispers, his voice slow, deep and raspy.

I cry out, lost in sensation as my climax builds, builds even more, and hits the crescendo with a shattering intensity. Jared's fingers dig into my flesh, still in control through every blissful second until he joins me with a harsh cry of his own. Inside me, his cock throbs through his release. I slow my rhythm through the ebbing waves and he pulls me down to him, hugging me against him. Between us, I feel our frantic heartbeats and quickened breathing begin to ease as the afterglow envelops us.

"That's some welcome home," Jared murmurs and kisses me. Combing a stray tendril of hair from my face, his hypnotic eyes, so very close, lock on mine. "I hated leaving early, but Jesus Christ, I love coming home even more."

Something about the way he's looking at me—the love in his eyes, the intensity with which his gaze holds me—renders me unable to form a coherent response. Instead, I trace his face with my fingertips, feeling glowingly renewed, secure and loved. In his kiss, in the warmth of his arms around me and his body pressed against mine, I find strength and resolve. I let it fill me, ignoring a whispering voice that creeps in, warning me that I'm going to need it.

 


	5. Jared

Lanie's always an early riser—up before full daylight usually, and off to the kitchen to make breakfast. Most of the time I sleep until around nine or so, but my inner clock is still on European time and I haven't yet slept since arriving home at two in the morning.

The elevator hums as it carries me up to Shelby's bedroom. She's still out cold, her dark blonde hair spilling over her pillow and obscuring her face. Approaching the bed slowly, I croon, "Good morning, my little angel."

Shelby mumbles and stirs, and finally she opens her eyes. Then she sits bolt upright, crying,  _"Jared!"_ which sends her two kittens, Smokey and Rose, fleeing from the bed in terror.  

My back screams in agonized protest when Shelby leaps from her bed and throws herself into my arms, but I ignore it. Hugging the little girl tightly, I murmur, "Hey, kiddo! I'm glad to see you, too."

"Mom said you wouldn't be home until late tonight!" Her arms grip me even tighter, as if she's afraid I'll disappear again if she lets go.

"Yeah, that was the plan, but I caught an earlier flight because I missed you and your mom."

"Does she know you're home?"

"Yep. I woke her up when I got in," I reply with a smile.

Shelby clutches my hand. "Well, can we do something today? The three of us? Or do you have to work?"

When don't I have to work? I'm well aware that my schedule's full from now until we fly back to Europe to tour in March. For one thing, we've fallen behind on finishing the new album. The tracks have been laid down, sure, but there's mixing and fine-tuning and editing, all of which is a long, painstaking and frustrating job. Then I have a number of meetings with various members of my team, more meetings arranged revolving around my other projects, press to do for  _The Outsider,_ which is scheduled to premiere on Netflix in late February, and the script for the Liz Moore film I'm shooting next fall that needs to be gone through. But damn it, can't I take this first day home and spend it with my wife and stepdaughter? Can I for once do what _I_ want to do?

Fucking right I can. I smile down at Shelby and think up something on the spot. "Sure. We can do something. Let's go hit Salt & Straw after lunch."

"Ooh, ice cream!" Shelby's eyes dance with excitement. "And I love that place especially!"

"Then it's a date," I grin.

 

***

 

Lanie has not quite mastered the art of my vegan pancakes, but she sure does make a great effort at it. Besides, I'm so happy to be home that I couldn't care less that the mess on my plate doesn't much resemble the uniformly round, golden cakes I can turn out with ease. These are a little overcooked and definitely not round by any definition.

Lanie places a glass of ice cold almond milk in front of me and shrugs apologetically at the sad-looking pancakes. "Hopefully they taste better than they look," she remarks.

"Babe, don't worry about it. I'm sure they're great." I take a bite, chew, swallow, and then clutch my throat, making gagging noises.

"Oh, my God!" Lanie rushes to me. "Oh, shit, Jared, I'm sorry—here, drink this." She hands me the glass of almond milk. I guzzle half of it in one swallow and begin to cough.

Lanie looks destroyed. "I must have used too much salt, I couldn't remember how much to put in. I'm sorry—" she says again. But when I begin to grin, and then laugh, her frantic expression becomes a glare. "Oh, you little shit! You were just messing with me?"

I nod, still grinning. "The pancakes are fine. I swear."

Lanie slumps into the chair across from me, scowling. "Jesus Christ. You scared the  _shit_  out of me! Can you please save the great acting for the cameras?"

I reach out with my bare foot and play with hers under the table. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist."

Lanie gives me a half-smile. "It's okay. But they  _do_ look awful. Admit it."

I glance at my plate. "Well, okay. Yeah, they do look pretty bad, but they're tasty." I take another bite. They are actually pretty good. A little more practice and Lanie will master mine and Tomo's recipe.

Shelby comes skipping into the room a moment later and she dives into her breakfast happily. Unlike Lanie, my stepdaughter isn't embracing veganism with much enthusiasm, and I know Lanie's been cooking meat for her in one of the other kitchens. But the pancakes are a favorite of hers, even these less than perfect ones Lanie's made. "We're all going to Salt & Straw for ice cream this afternoon," she tells her mom.

Lanie looks up at me from across the table, her eyes wide. "What—the three of us?"

I nod. "If you'd like to come, yeah. I thought it might be a nice little outing."

Lanie shifts around and looks a little uncomfortable. "Uh, is that a good idea?"

"Why not?" Shelby asks, frowning. "Jared's taken me there a few times. Their ice cream is the best in the world, Mom. And they have  _vegan_  ice cream, too. That's what Jared's gotten when he's taken me. It's made with coconut or something. Yuck." She makes a face.

"Don't knock it til you try it, kiddo," I tell her.

Lanie still looks uneasy. "But what about—you know—the paparazzi?"

I shrug. "Well, we'll take the GMC instead of the Bronco. I'll put my hair up under a hat, wear shades and we'll go in and out quick." When Lanie just continues looking at me, I add, "I'd thought you'd jump at the chance at us getting out and doing something together."

Lanie doesn't answer. She focuses on peeling an orange, giving it her full attention. Shelby and I exchange a look. "You don't want to go?" I ask Lanie.

"I do, but..." Lanie shrugs as she separates the orange sections. "It just sucks that something this everyday, this simple, something other people take for granted, something just a few months ago  _I'd_  taken for granted, requires so much careful consideration."

"I know," I say quietly. "But it won't be like this forever."

Lanie glances at Shelby, then at me. "Yeah. Sure." She gets up from the table and goes to the kitchen.

I bring in mine and Shelby's plates after she and I are done eating. Lanie's loading the dishwasher and when I set the plates down on the counter and touch her back, it's stiff. "What's going on, babe?" I ask.

Lanie takes the plates and rinses them. "It's nothing." A pause. "Okay, it's something. But it's something I don't want to bug you about."

"Bug me," I say softly.

Lanie turns. "They're talking about me."

"Who is?"

She gestures vaguely. "People. Just  _people._  Your fans. Do you know what they call me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"They don't know my name. They don't know who I am to you at all. Am I an assistant, or a housekeeper who's getting a few extra fringe benefits along with a paycheck? There's a whole lot of interest in your private life out there. And in  _my_  life. And in  _Shelby's_  life."

"Lanie—"

They call me  _PoolGirl."_  And the pictures Todd got of us in the pool?  _PoolGate._ Like Watergate, you know?"

"Oh, God," I groan, understanding now. "That's why I advised you to not go digging up shit online. It'll make you crazy."

"Actually, I didn't have to dig at all. And while we're on the subject, Jared, how many of these women— these fans that are talking about sleeping with you— how many have you actually hooked up with?"

I rake a hand through my hair. "Hooked up with? Christ, I don't know. It's happened from time to time in the past, especially in the early days, yeah, but—"

"But not the other night after the EMA's with a couple of drunk blonde teenagers?"

My eyes widen. "That's pretty specific and as you certainly should know,  _definitely_  untrue. Where did you—wait—were you reading a  _gossip_  site?" Lanie leans against the counter, her arms crossed. She doesn't look at me, though. I start to laugh. "You  _were!"_

She scowls. "Not deliberately. I saw pictures from the EMAs, I ended up in the comments underneath, and I clicked a link with an interesting title that took me to a gossip site. You know what that title said?"

"Let me guess." Hooking my fingers in the air for quotation marks, I raise my voice to a falsetto. ' _I fucked Jared Leto.'_ Right? Come on, Lanie. You  _know_  I didn't."

Lanie shakes her head. "No, I know you didn't, because we were texting that whole night except for about an hour which was before you even left the party, and I know you were in Shannon's room with him when you went to sleep. That's not the point."

"Then—what  _is_  the point?"

"The point is, that these people—that these women—are saying shit like that at all. I mean, why? For what purpose?"

"There have been stories out there for years. It's— I guess it's an occupational hazard of being in this business. Why?" I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe they wanted attention, maybe a self-esteem boost, or they wanted to impress people. They wanted to feel special. If they really knew me and not the guy they  _think_  I am, they'd understand that I'm not some great catch. But I'm a  _difficult_  catch. And now?" I smile and touch her cheek. "Now, I've been caught."

Lanie doesn't return my smile. "Yeah. But the world thinks Katia's the one who caught you, and I'm this—this interloper. This  _homewrecker."_  Her eyes meet mine. "And you're a cheating prick screwing the hired help, and some people believe a lot worse things about you than that you're a cheating prick."

"What do you want me to do, Lanie? Do you want me to call Katia and Ivan's bluff?" I say with a sigh. "I could, you know. I could take this whole thing in my own hands and go public, and let the chips fall where they may. If it was just me, I'd probably do it. I'd have already done it, in fact. But it's  _not_  just me. You need to realize a lot of other people's lives rely on my career as much as my own does." I pause, and my voice softens as I see the consternation in her face. " This is temporary, Lanie. I swear, as soon as I can get out of this and get those pictures from Katia and Ivan Valkov, this'll all be over."

Lanie studies me, an unreadable expression in her beautiful eyes. then she nods. "Whatever has to be done to get those pictures out of their hands, right?"

"Yes," I say softly. "Exactly."

Her lips tighten. "Until then and in the meantime, we hide our marriage, I'm called  _PoolGirl_ for the next who knows how long, and if we want to do things any other couple gets to do, you go in disguise and I panic at every tourist passing by with a camera. Shelby gets shadowed by Gene and David every day to school and back. And you go out and convince the world that you and Katia Valkov are madly in love until her profile or whatever is high enough to make her happy and she'll hand over the photos. Got it."

I close my eyes and rub them, annoyed with myself for the impatience that I feel brewing inside me. Reminding myself that Lanie isn't a celebrity, is still trying to figure out how all this Hollywood bullshit works, I say quietly, "Babe, you knew this was going to be the way it is. I told you what stepping into the bubble with me is going to be like. You think it's crazy now? This is nothing. Once it's safe for us to go public, that's when it's going to get truly crazy. People—the fans, the press,  _everyone_ —are going to be relentless wanting to know everything they can about you, and they're good at getting information." I give her a wry smile. "And frankly, there's going to be some hate thrown at you. It'll get ugly."

Lanie looks at me and a smile plays at her lips, but it has a brittle, nervous edge. "Be careful what you wish for, is that it?"

"Pretty much, yeah." I step closer and draw her close to me. "I wish to God it didn't have to be like this. I'm so sorry."

She nods against my shoulder. "I'm sorry, too." She draws a deep breath and pulls back a little to look up at me. With a decisive nod, she says, "Okay. Yes, we'll go get ice cream, and I'll try to stop being so neurotic and bitchy. I'm just PMS'ing I guess. Unloading my hormonal angst wasn't what I had in mind on your first day home."

I laugh and kiss her. "PMS, huh? Then ice cream is just the thing you need."

Her smile is warm and genuine now. "Mmmm. Yep. Chocolate.  _Loads_  of chocolate."

"Loads of chocolate. You got it."

 

***

 

Not surprisingly, my phone hasn't quit the entire day. I ignore the calls and texts from Katia, my agent Josh, my publicist Karen and my attorney Oliver Hatch. I only communicate with my assistants, my mother, Shannon, Tomo and Stevie. The latter three inform me that Katia is furious about my leaving London early, but too bad—undoubtedly she'll demand some public appearance in L.A. to make up for it. Not that we had anything else going on in London anyway, but Katia's hardly likely to see it that way. 

The trip to Salt & Straw is uneventful in that no paparazzi seem to be lurking about. Despite putting my hair up under my hat and shades covering my eyes, I see a glint of recognition in some of the people we encounter, though with David and Gene along and sticking close by us, no one does anything more than a double-take. Mere stares, no problem. I can deal with those. We even sit outside the shop at a table under an umbrella and enjoy our ice cream, David and Gene sitting with us and keeping a watchful eye on our surroundings.

When a half-hour passes without being bothered, Lanie finally seems to relax. I snapchat a picture of my cone and send it. Shelby is enjoying herself and oblivious to all else, diving into an enormous ice cream cone stacked high with four different flavors and chattering amiably with the two bodyguards—who Shelby has come to think of more as just another couple of friends of ours rather than security, which suits me fine. I want her to have as normal a life as possible. I've seen what happens to Hollywood kids who don't.

"Jared, what are the plans for Thanksgiving?" Lanie asks me suddenly.

I look at her and shrug. "I haven't really had time to think about it much. What would you like to do?"

She smiles. "Well, back home we always put on a huge feast and invited people over. It was a wild game feed kind of thing though, and—"

"Yeah," Shelby puts in. "Wild turkey, pheasant, duck, grouse, venison, it was great!"

I cringe and can't help making a face. "Yikes."

"I know, right?" Lanie smiles. "I'd like to do something like that, but I'm afraid I'm at a bit of a loss about how to put on a vegan Thanksgiving feast."

"There are a number of catering options," David suggests, and Gene nods his agreement.

"Yeah, but I want to do a home-cooked Thanksgiving as much as I can. I think I have vegan pumpkin pie figured out. I found a delicious-sounding recipe online." Lanie gestures with her phone. "The sides aren't a problem. I can work with those, but we have to have that main dish. Maybe I'll do some experimenting and come up with a turkey replacement with seitan, somehow."

"As long as you don't end up buying a bunch of Tofurkey, I'm good with whatever you want to do." I catch some dripping ice cream with my tongue. "Any idea of who you want to invite and how many?"

"I was hoping you'd help me come up with a list. Besides your mom, Shannon and the guys, that is."

"Flora and Magda are spending it with her family in Minnesota, right?" I ask.

"Yeah," Lanie says. "And I really don't know anyone else here."

I nod. "Okay. I'll work on a list this week."

 

***

 

I haven't told Lanie about the incident in Katia's hotel room. She's told me she doesn't want to know—though I'm certain the question is eating away at her—but true to her word, she hasn't asked. I'm glad for that because I wouldn't be able to lie if she did. And I cannot bring myself to tell her unless she does ask. Just imagining her reaction fills me with anguish I can hardly bear, even though I didn't and couldn't go through with the act. Thank God.

But I do tell her about running into Kristov at the EMAs after-party that night while we're sitting outside watching the sunset. At the mention of his name, a shadow seems to cross her face and she studies me intently. I tell her about the conversation and the impact Kristov's words had on me. "I guess—I guess he's right," I finish. "I brought this on myself. All of it."

"Well," she muses, "Technically, that may be true, but I'd like to know why Katia even knew he had those photos in the first place? He had to have told her about them. Why would he have told her?"

"Yeah. I don't know. That photo shoot was supposed to be our secret. I never told anyone but Shannon until you." I sigh deeply. "Look, I know this trip was absolute hell for both of us. Not just being apart right after getting married, but everything that it entailed. All I can think about is how I need to figure out a way to get out from under this. I can't keep doing this to you, to us. I see what you're going through and it hurts, babe. It hurts bad, and this is just the start of it."

Lanie looks up at the stars beginning to appear in the indigo sky. "The rest of Awards Season," she murmurs. "The tour. The premiere of  _The Outsider._  Filming the new movie. And however long before its premiere. And all the press around all of it. Yes, it's a long time."

"Too long?" I reach out and comb a tendril of hair from her face. "The truth, Lanie."

Her eyes fix on mine. They look lost and scared. "I don't know," she whispers.

 

***

 

Dr. Lange doesn't hold back, giving me a stern lecture about pushing myself too hard too soon, about not getting enough rest, about slacking off on my physical therapy exercises. "And in March you're going on tour for a few months?" He shakes his head. "Jared, you're not a twenty-two year old kid anymore. You've aggravated both your back injury and impeded the healing process in your tibia and your ACL. Have you been wearing your brace?" He shakes his head, his disapproval evident. "Don't bother to answer. I know you haven't."

"I have, just—probably not as consistently as I should," I mumble.

"Your back is what's concerning me most right now," Dr. Lange continues. "Your L4 and L5 vertebrae and your sacrum are all compromised. Bulging disc, a further degeneration and instability where the lumbar meets the sacroiliac joint—it's a wonder you're as mobile as you are."

"It's not all bad all the time," I protest. "Now that I'm home I'm back on the exercise regimen. Lanie's working with me as best as she can. But it's just—it hurts, Doc."

"I can imagine it does. Ten days of nonstop running in Europe and neglecting yourself set you back quite a bit," Dr. Lange says. "I can certainly prescribe pain medication for you, but—"

"No. I'm not doping myself up with narcotics. I have work to do and I can't be zonked out of my head while I'm doing it."

"That's exactly what I expected to hear." Dr. Lange says. "In which case, the same remedies apply as before. Hot packs, ice packs, and rest all you can. Swimming is the best exercise you can do, and I recommend you do it. Stretches, too."

"Got it, Doc." I slide down from the examining table and grab my clothes from the nearby chair.

"I want to see you back here in about two weeks, Jared. Hopefully by then you'll be feeling better. If you stick to the plan, you should be."

Lanie's out in the waiting room, standing at the reception desk. She's clutching her phone in one hand, and I hear her say, "Can you please let Jared know?"

"Certainly, although he should be finished any minute," the receptionist tells her.

"Hey, I'm right here," I say as I step into the waiting room. "Let me know what?"

Lanie looks over at me, her face pale and with a frantic expression that seems barely contained. "Jared, we have to go," she says, her voice tight. "Shelby's school just called."

Alarm bells start going off in my head. "What? Why? Is she okay?"

Lanie shakes her head and looks grim. "They said she's been in a fight."


	6. Lanie

I make the trip from Cedars-Sinai back to Laurel Canyon in near-record time, especially considering I haven't driven in L.A. any further than the market near the compound. As I wind the GMC through the quiet, tree-lined and impeccably manicured neighborhood, a thousand thoughts fill my mind.

Shelby. In a fight? In an honest-to-God schoolyard brawl? I can hardly believe it. Even though my daughter is a tough little tomboy, she's not the violent type. She's never been a discipline problem at school whatsoever, much less hit another student. She did see enough of that between her dad and me though, so—

My thoughts are jerked back to the road as I take a curve way too fast and swerve violently to miss a black Audi SUV parked in front of a condominium complex, and back again to avoid a head-on collision with a delivery truck coming the other way. The truck driver lays on his horn, and I respond with a stiff middle finger out my window.

"Slow down, Lanie! Christ!" Jared yelps from the passenger seat.

I glance over at him. He's hanging onto the oh-shit handle above his seat and he looks a trifle pale. My attention goes to the speedometer and I realize I took that curve at double the speed limit. I ease off the gas, muttering, "Sorry. I'm a little upset."

"Yeah, well, 'a little upset' almost took out a fifty-thousand dollar car."

"Parked in a no-parking zone," I snap back. "And that truck was too far in the middle of the street."

Jared throws me a look but wisely he says nothing further until we pull into the Canyon View Elementary parking lot.

"Jimmy's here?" I nod my head at the familiar blue Pathfinder parking in the Visitor's lot. "Why'd they call him?"

Jared shakes his head. "I don't know. You don't think...no. Do you think Shelby and Tyrell were in a fight?"

I pull into the open visitors parking space next to Jimmy's. "Shelby and Ty? No. No way. But Jimmy's on Shelby's emergency contact list, so maybe when we couldn't get here immediately they called him." I throw the GMC in park and jump out as Jimmy exits his vehicle.

"What's going on?" I ask Jimmy, as Jared gets out of the car.

The big man shakes his head. "Wish I knew. I got a call saying Ty was involved in a fight. What are you two doing here?"

"They called and said Shelby was in a fight, too," Jared says.

Jimmy's eyes widen. "With each other?  _Those_ two? Oh, hell, no. They're best friends!"

"That's what I said." I start for the entrance. "Let's go find out what's going on."

After buzzing us through security, Jared, Jimmy and I go into the office. There, we are greeted by the blonde secretary, who informs us that the kids are in a conference room talking to a police officer and the school's principal as well as the guidance counselor.

"A  _cop?_  For a schoolyard brawl?" I mutter as we are shown to the room.

Shelby's sitting in a corner of the room, her arms folded, a furious expression on her face. Next to her is a woman I've never met before, speaking urgently to her. Shelby doesn't look at her, but she sees us come into the room and she looks away, chewing her bottom lip. Her hair is a mess, her t-shirt sleeve is torn, and as she turns away from me I notice a red mark on her cheek.

At the table, Tyrell is sitting with the police officer. He looks scared and angry all at once. When we come into the room and he sees his father, he shrinks in his chair.

"Ms. McCarty," Mr. Teer, the school principal greets us as he stands up. His youngish-looking face is solemn. "Mr. Leto. Mr. Quentin. Thank you for coming. As you've heard, we had a problem today with Shelby and Tyrell."

 _No shit,_ I think, as Jared asks, "What happened? Are you two okay now? What in the world happened so bad that you two would get into a fight?"

"Oh, no. Shelby and Tyrell weren't fighting each other," Mr. Teer explains. "Please, sit down. Shelby, Mrs. Andrews, please come join us. Have you met Mrs. Andrews, our guidance counselor?" he asks me.

"No, I haven't," I say. We introduce ourselves and then Jared, Jimmy and I take the offered seats at the conference table. Shelby and Mrs. Andrews follow suit. The entire time, Shelby refuses to look at anyone or anything, keeping her eyes downcast.

Mrs. Andrews looks at Shelby. "You want to explain what happened, Shelby?"

Shelby squirms but she says nothing. And she still refuses to look at anyone.

"Tyrell," Jimmy says softly, but his face is like granite. "What did  _you_  do?"

"I just..." Ty looks across the table at his father, defiance in his dark eyes. "Dad, Aubri started it, and then Harlan Kade got into it. He hit Shelby in the face. He sucker-punched her, and I ain't gonna let nobody hurt Shelby. So I took care of him."

"She was  _punched?"_  I gasp.

Next to me, Jared's expression turns mutinous. "A boy punched her? Why is she in here and in trouble? Where's the kid that hit her?"

"It's a little more involved than that, Mr. Leto," Mr. Teer puts in. "Shelby, either you tell us exactly what happened, or I will. I think we'd all rather hear the story from you."

"It's okay, kiddo," Jared encourages. "Just tell us."

Shelby finally looks up and her eyes meet Jared's. They flit to me, then back to Jared. "We were outside playing dodgeball for gym class, and Aubri Sinclair got in my face about...about stuff."

"Aubri Sinclair." Jared sits back with a sigh. "Is this the same Aubri Sinclair that I think it is?"

"Yeah, it is," Tyrell answers. "She thinks she's so much better than everyone else because she's on TV all the time."

"What happened, Shelby?" I ask her. "What did she get in your face about, and what did you do?"

Shelby chews her lip, and she blinks rapidly. "Just stuff. Making fun of me and of—she was just saying bad things."

"Like what kinds of bad things?" Jared asks.

When Shelby again refuses to answer with more than just a shrug, Mr. Teer sighs. "Shelby, we have to hear both sides of the story."

"I don't wanna repeat what she said," Shelby mutters. "But she deserved what she got. So did Harlan."

"Shelby, Mrs. Bryce heard quite a bit of what was said," Mrs. Andrews admonishes quietly. "No one is saying she or Harlan were in the right here, but we can't have violence in the school."

"Speaking of violence, Shelby's got a mark on her face," Jared points out. "I want to know where the kid is that hit her and what you're doing about it."

"The vice principal is in another room with Harlan Kade and Aubri Sinclair," Mr. Teer explains. "We felt it best to keep them separated."

"Were their parents notified? Is there a cop with them, too?" I snap, eyeing the police officer next to Tyrell.

"I already spoke with them," the policeman responds. "I believe their caregivers have been notified. Look, Ms. McCarty, your daughter assaulted a student. The boy who hit your daughter was defending Aubri, and Tyrell here leaped into it and body-slammed the boy on the concrete. Had they stayed out of it, this may not have escalated into—"

"You body-slammed the kid?" The tone of Jimmy's voice scares even me. "Boy, I swear—"

"I know how to do it. I did it the way you taught me," Ty protests. "I didn't even hurt him. I just wanted to protect Shelby. He punched her in the face! You don't hit girls, that's also what you taught me! Right, Dad?"

I quickly look over at Jimmy. He's furious, but I also see a hint of admiration in his dark eyes. I feel a good amount of that myself, but I can't let it show. "Shelby, I need to know what set you off. You've never gotten into a fight at school before."

Shelby's little face is grim. "I told you. Aubri started saying stuff. I'd had enough of listening to her big mouth so I smacked her, and she got a bloody nose. That's how it started."

"What stuff was she saying?"

"I'm not gonna repeat it." Shelby sets her chin stubbornly.

"Actually, you are," I respond, fixing her with the look. "You hit this girl and made her bleed. You're in a hell of a jam here, and if you have a defense, I want to hear it. This officer, Mr. Teer, and Mrs. Andrews need to hear it."

To my shock, Shelby begins to cry. She buries her face in her hands and sobs quietly. Jared and I look at one another, and Jared shakes his head. "Let me take it from here," he whispers gently. "Can I talk to her for a minute?" he asks the others, his eyes fixed mostly on the cop. Without waiting for an answer, he gets up, goes around the table and takes Shelby's hand. "Come on, kiddo. Talk to me alone for a minute."

Shelby shakes her head vigorously. "Jared, I can't tell you what she said! It was really, really bad!"

"Just come with me." He urges Shelby to the corner where she was sitting when we came in, and together they sit.

"Tyrell, do you know what was said between Aubri and Shelby?" Jimmy asks his son quietly.

"Well—" Ty's eyes flit to me, then over to Jared and Shelby in the corner, then back to his dad. "Not all of it. But it was something about Ms. Lanie and Mr. Leto."

"Shut up, Ty," Shelby snaps.

"Shelby," Mr. Teer and I say at the same time. "About Jared and me?" I ask Ty, a sinking feeling in my gut. "This Aubri said something to Shelby about us?"

"Yeah. She said—"

"Tyrell,  _shut up!"_  Shelby yells.

"Hey," Jared says quietly, slipping an arm around her. Shelby begins to cry harder. As I watch them, I suddenly think about Todd. What would he do in this situation? Well, I know what he would do. He'd yank Shelby out of school, take her home, and take his embarrassment and anger out on me as well as her. That is, if he bothered to even show up at the school in the first place.

What a contrast. Jared's over there speaking quietly to her, letting her cry on him, and from the looks of it, she's talking to him. As Jared listens, he looks up at me, a stricken expression on his face before it clouds over with a mix of sadness and anger.

A few moments later they rejoin us at the table. Jared's shaking his head and his eyes are like ice. "Damn it," he whispers, and covers his face with his hands.  _"Damn_  it!"

Shelby looks at me, sniffeling, her eyes reddened.

"Tell me what happened," I urge her softly.

"It's okay, kiddo," Jared encourages.

Shelby takes a deep breath."I hit Aubri Sinclair because she said Jared's an asshole. She said he's cheating on that Russian lady with you, that you're a gold-digging—a gold-digging  _w_ - _whore,_  and she said that you're a nasty slut because you're trying to take Jared away from that Katia lady. She said we need to go back to Minnesota where we belong because we're low-class trash."

My stomach lurches and I fully understand everything now. Why Shelby struck the girl. Why Jared's so upset. "Shelby," I say quietly, "You know none of that is true."

"Yeah. That's why I got so pissed," Shelby says.

"Please don't use that word, Shelby," Mr. Teer admonishes. "Now, while Aubri certainly shouldn't have said those things, hitting her wasn't the proper response. What is a better choice you could have made?"

"Tell someone, right? I  _have._  I told Mrs. Bryce before, but it hasn't stopped. She's always doing this!" Shelby cries. "Ever since she came back to school after doing that TV show she's been picking on me, and I got sick of it! I'm not going to let her say things like that about Jared and my mom!" She slams her hand on the table. Through bared teeth, she continues, "My dad used to call my mom that name, and my mom is  _not_ a whore! Jared isn't even with that Russian lady! He's with my mom! My mom and Jared are  _married!"_

 _Oh, shit._  Shelby's eyes fly to mine, and there's horror in them. We've explained to Shelby that our marriage needs to be kept quiet for the time being, using the paparazzi as the sole excuse, and the look on her face is one of pure panic.

At once, Mr. Teer and Mrs. Andrews stare at me and Jared. "You're married?" Mr. Teer asks.

Jared and I exchange a glance. "Well—" Jared begins. He looks at Shelby, then at me. I shake my head ever so slightly at him. I have no idea what he can say to cover for Shelby's slip, but I hope he'll think of something plausible.

But Jared shakes his head in return, and then he heaves a sigh. Under the table, he reaches for my hand and holds it tightly. "Yes, Lanie and I are married." I stare at him, aghast.  _What the hell is he doing?_  Jared continues, "We were married very recently. For a few reasons—personal and professional, we haven't yet announced it publicly. I trust this is something that remains in this room."

I wonder if any of these people watched the awards shows in Madrid and London, when Jared and Katia were very much together on the red carpet, and if they did, what they must be thinking now. But then, this is Hollywood. To them, this unexpected announcement may  not be so odd.

Maybe not, because Mr. Teer only says, "I see." He folds his hands on the table. "We'll have to update Shelby's records to reflect that change in relationship, as you're now her stepfather, Mr. Leto. But back to the issue today—I'm very sorry to say that I have no choice but to suspend both Shelby and Tyrell for the remainder of the week."

 _"Suspend_  them? Even though this Aubri was bullying my daughter, this boy Harlan punched her, and Ty was trying to protect her?  They're the ones getting the punishment?" I exclaim.

"Yeah, what about the other two kids involved?" Jared demands.

"We'll deal with them and their parents, I assure you," Mrs. Andrews says briskly. "Shelby, if this bullying happens again, please come talk to me. Don't take matters to violence. It solves nothing."

"Apparently neither does telling someone," Jared mutters under his breath as he gets to his feet. "Is that all?"

"There's a disciplinary form at the front desk we'll have to have Ms. McCarty sign, and one for you as well, Mr. Quentin," Mr. Teer informs us. "Their suspension starts immediately. Shelby and Tyrell are both dismissed for the day, and you may take them home."

"Naturally," I mumble as I rise, too.

On our way out, we meet an impeccably groomed, tall, svelte silvery-blonde-haired woman a little older than I am. "Stephanie Sinclair," Jared mutters as the woman stops at the desk and speaks testily to the secretary. "Aubri's mother."

"She looks familiar," I mutter back.

"I imagine she does. She's been in a number of films. And she's a fucking nightmare to work with. I know first-hand."

"Mommy?" A child's voice makes me turn. Appearing in the doorway of an adjacent conference room, a miniature version of her mother stands there, clutching a bloody tissue with tears running down her face. "Mommy!" she rushes to the woman. "That's her!" she sobs, pointing at Shelby. "That's the girl who beat me up!" Aubri dissolves in hysterics, and though I'm hardly the best judge, even I can tell it's an act.

"Oh, my darling, oh, my baby!" Stephanie exclaims, hugging her daughter. She turns her attention to us with a steely glare. "How  _dare_  you touch my child!" she hisses at Shelby. Her eyes flit to me, then Jared, and then back to me. She scoffs, "Well, of course, it's you. I shouldn't be surprised. What kind of mother  _are_  you, anyway?"

"I could ask you the exact same thing," I retort. "Except my guess is you're not any kind of mother at all. Your spoiled brat is probably being raised by an army of nannies, and the only time you pay attention to her is when it benefits you, or when she acts up and forces you to remember that you even have a kid."

Stephanie flinches as if she were the one who was struck. "How—how  _dare_  you!" she rages again, her porcelain cheeks flushing a dull red.

"Uh, folks, can we not do this here?" the secretary interrupts. She shoves the pink disciplinary slips at Jimmy and me. "Just sign these and you may go."  _The sooner the better,_ her eyes finish.

Jimmy and I quickly sign our names while Jared stares Aubri's mother down. The woman is trembling indignantly in her spike heels. The kids are silent beside us, but exchange a look when Aubri stops crying long enough to glare at Shelby and Ty, muttering, "I'm glad you guys are getting kicked out of school. Just because you live at Jared Leto's house doesn't mean you belong here."

"Ignore her," I warn as we start for the door. "She's not worth it."

"Come on, kiddo," Jared urges. "Like your mom said, she's not worth it. You're a million times the kid she could ever dream of being."

But Shelby shakes his hand from her shoulder. She stops, turns, and extends a stiff middle finger, making Aubri, her mother, and the secretary all gasp in unison.

With a crooked little smile, Shelby says, "You're a shitty actress, Aubri. Everyone in school thinks so, but I'm the only one with the guts to say it to your face. Everyone knows the only reason you even got on Disney is cuz your dad works there. You can't act your way out of a paper bag."

Speechless, Aubri and Stephanie only stare back, openmouthed. Turning, her head high, Shelby stalks out of the office, Tyrell behind her, covering his mouth to suppress a peal of laughter.

"Holy shit," Jared says as we climb into the GMC, Jared taking the driver's seat. "I hope that secretary isn't calling a tabloid right about now." He turns as Shelby gets in the back. "I can't say I condone that little speech and gesture of yours, but she deserved it."

Shelby manages to look shamefaced and proud at the same time. "Mom's the one who  _really_  let her mom have it. Wow."

"She sure did," Jared gives me a slanted grin. "Feisty, proud, beautiful, and she defends her family like a tiger."

"I can't believe I said that to her," I murmur as we follow Jimmy down Wonderland Avenue.

"Well, for the record, you were dead on," Jared informs me. "I've known Stephanie and Doug Sinclair for a long time, and only a few years back did I learn that they even had a kid. I've been to their house a few times for industry parties and fundraisers and shit like that. If Aubri was even around, they never really paid attention to her, just brought her out on display, kind of. They'd pat her on the head like she's a puppy and then a nanny would whisk her off back to the nursery. Then Doug and Stephanie—I suspect it was Stephanie, mostly— got the bright idea to make her a child actress, and next thing you know Aubri landed a big role on this Disney program." He glances in the rear-view mirror. "Is she really a bad actress?"

Shelby nods. "I've seen the show she's on. She's terrible."

"Maybe she never wanted to be an actress. Maybe that's her parents pushing her into something she never wanted to do," I say.

"Well, it's her mom, for sure," Jared says as we come to a stop behind Jimmy at the gate and we wait for Jimmy to press the entry code. "And those things that Aubri said to Shelby—that's probably Stephanie, too. She's always been a horrible gossip."

"Yeah...hearing that was like reading those comments online all over again," I sigh. "I'm amazed she didn't call me PoolGirl."

Jared gives me a pained look, but he says nothing further, just parks the GMC in the underground garage and gets out, heading into the house with a slight limp.

"Is he mad at me and trying to hide it?" Shelby asks softly. Her face is worried and anxious. "It seems like it."

"Jared? No, I don't think he's mad at you, really. He's upset at the whole situation. We all are." I rumple Shelby's hair. "Let's go get you cleaned up and fix an ice pack for your cheek. Maybe it won't bruise too much if we ice it."

Shelby shrugs. "I just want to go to the tower. I've got ice and a towel, I'll take care of it myself." She hurries into the house, and by the time I step inside, she's already gone.

I locate Jared in the soundstage, where he's sitting at a drawing table, sketching aimlessly on a huge tablet of paper. He looks up briefly when I come in, and then goes back to his sketching.

"So, now what?" I ask quietly.

Jared doesn't look up. "I have no idea, babe."

I chew my bottom lip. "It's affecting my daughter now, Jared. I can't have that."

Jared doesn't reply, but I see his throat work as he swallows hard. He grips his pencil a little tighter and the lines he draws get darker.

I persist. "I can take all the hits in the world, you know. Flora says I have to grow a few more layers of skin, and maybe I do, but when it comes to Shelby—it's like you said in the car. I'm protective. I can't not be. So..." I trail off.

Jared closes his eyes and sets the pencil down. "So....what are you saying, Lanie?"

I take a deep breath. "I think we really have to consider plan B."

Jared stares at me, a look of horror and the beginning of anger swirling in his eyes.  _"What?"_

"You said yourself, this is just the start of it. There are all these things coming up, these events, and Katia's supposed to be your date for all of them. There's no way Shelby's schoolmates won't see them—the Grammys, the Oscars—and with all the rumors flying around as it is now, it's only going to get worse—"

"You think that doesn't kill me inside? I love Shelby, too, and to know I'm responsible for her suffering the kind of bullying she got today is killing me! And...and what—you think the solution for it all is for you to fuck Ivan Valkov?" Jared picks up his pencil and throws it across the room as he bolts to his feet. His chair tips over with a crash that echoes through the cavernous room and I flinch. "Like hell I'll let you do that, Lanie! You're my wife!"

I throw my hands up. "But I'm supposed to be okay with  _you_  fucking Katia Valkov?"

"No, you're not supposed to be okay with it. Fuck, Lanie,  _I'm_ not okay with it. But this is  _my_  mess, and it's  _my_ responsibility to fix it. I can't stomach the idea of you...of you...I can't do it. I won't let you do it."

I approach him where he's standing, his fists balled up, his face like stone. Keeping my voice calm and level, I say, "You're my husband, Jared. We're supposed to work through our issues and challenges together. Just hear me out, okay? I might have an idea. If it all goes right, I won't have to sleep with Ivan at all."

"What are you talking about? Of  _course_ you'll have to sleep with him. He made his conditions perfectly clear that night at Bouchon. The whole  _point_  of his offer was to fuck you."

I nod. "I know."

"So, what are you even talking about?"

"I'm talking about a plan that'll turn the tables on this bastard. Beating him at his own game. And getting those pictures out of his hands without him laying a finger on me."

Jared frowns. Confusion is etched on his face now instead of anger, which is encouraging. "What plan is  _that?"_

I allow myself a smile. "One I haven't quite figured out all the details of yet, but with a little bit of information and a little bit of help, I promise you I will."


	7. Jared

If I were to look at a calendar and pinpoint a date when things started to fall apart, it would have to be that day...the day Shelby was bullied and subsequently suspended for defending her family, and Lanie proposing that she take the situation into her own hands instead of leaving me to work out my self-induced mess.

It's a downward spiral;  a turning point. It's a foreshadowing of things to come.

I'm sure Lanie felt it too, but we don't discuss it—the shift, I mean—and that's probably the first mistake. Clearly the events that follow indicate as much. Probably a lot could be averted if people weren't so afraid of every uncomfortable emotion, so terrified of honest communication.

Shelby gets through her suspension and returns to school without further incident the following week, as does Tyrell. During that time, Shelby and I have a conversation that leaves me with an even further sense of guilt and despondency, one where I'm forced to explain why things are the way they are and why Katia Valkov is a presence in my life at all.

Of course I don't tell her everything. Shelby is a remarkably astute kid for her age, open-minded and aware, but I can't bring myself to explain what it is Katia and Ivan have over me. Instead, I lay it out simply, as that Katia needs to be seen with me to help her career, and I owe her a favor. "You know she's not my girlfriend," I tell Shelby. "I'm an actor, and this is an act. It's no different than any other role I've taken."

"But it's hurting Mom." Shelby's dark brown eyes meet mine, a hint of accusation and resentment in them that stabs into me like a dull knife and twists painfully in my gut. "I don't understand why you keep doing it, knowing that it hurts her."

How to even respond to that? I rub my beard and nod. "Your mom knows the truth. You know the truth. And it's only for a little while longer." But even to me the words as I speak them sound lame and insufficient.

Thanksgiving arrives soon after, and as far as the meal itself goes, it's a resounding success. Between my mom, Tomo, and Lanie, they put out a multiple-course vegan spread that even Shelby agrees is out of this world. Jimmy and Tyrell join us, though they're about as far from vegan as you can imagine, and they agree. Jimmy even says he barely misses the turkey, complimenting Lanie on the seitan "turkey" she managed to come up with after much trial and error.

Over dessert and out of nowhere Shannon drops a bombshell, informing us he's moving to Seattle very soon. Like, the first of December soon.

The table falls silent as everyone turns to look at my brother. My fork, stabbed into a generous chunk of pumpkin pie, pauses halfway to my mouth. "What?" I utter.

"Are you serious?" Tomo exclaims. "Shannon, I... _Seattle?"_

Shannon fidgets under so many stares. "Ash and I have been talking," he mutters, glancing at his pretty blonde girlfriend seated to his left. She studiously avoids meeting our eyes, but she takes Shannon's hand in hers. "We want to get a place together. I put a bid on a house a couple of weeks ago and it was accepted last Monday. The place is gorgeous, with the most incredible view from the living room. We'll close probably right after the New Year, and until then I'll stay at Ash's."

"Well..." our Mother looks first to me, and then back at Shannon. "That's wonderful, Shannon, but I don't understand. You've never said anything before about moving to Seattle, and you must have been planning this for some time."

Shannon shrugs as he meets our mother's eyes. "Yeah. I just didn't see the point in bringing it up until it was a for-sure thing. Once Black Fuel took hold in Seattle, I knew it was a go."

My hand is still clutching my fork with the piece of pie impaled on it. I clear my throat as I consider several things to say. I settle for, "Where will this leave us? The band?"

Shannon's hazel eyes shift to me and his brows knit together in a frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, with you in Seattle, we'll have to schedule everything we do."

Shannon smirks. "With you juggling all the different stuff you're involved in, don't we do that already?"

I set my fork down."You know what I mean."

Shannon sits back. With a careless shrug, he says, "It's hardly going to make any immediate difference with everything coming up. Next spring there's the tour. April, the album release. And more touring here in the U.S. August is Camp Mars, then we go back to Europe, all the way into the fall. With all of that, it'll hardly be like I've moved."

Ashley's looking distinctly uncomfortable with the tension that's begun to build around the Thanksgiving table, and Lanie's giving me that look too that says  _not now._  Sighing, I pick up my fork again and resume eating my dessert, deciding she's right. It's not the time for a heated discussion. But the delicious pie seems more difficult to eat. It seems to have lost its flavor, and sits in my stomach like lead.

"I'll miss you," Shelby says to Shannon. "But Seattle's not that far away, I guess."

"It's not." Shannon smiles easily at her. "And I have it on good authority that planes do fly back and forth between here and Seattle on a regular basis."

Regular conversation eventually resumes as the subject gets dropped, but I don't take part in it. I focus on my dessert plate, studiously ignoring the glances thrown my way the longer I remain quiet. Shannon's been by my side virtually all of my life. As a brother, as a best friend, and as a bandmate. Protective, wise, there to keep me grounded and sane in the insane world I've built for myself. I can't help but feel a sense of impending loss, of abandonment creeping insidiously inside of me, and it hurts. It really hurts. A twinge of fear as well as resentment, toward both Shannon and his girlfriend begin to coil in my stomach.

Of course Shannon has picked up on my attitude instantly, and after dinner he finds me in the studio moodily plunking away on the keyboard, while Stevie works at the computer across the room. I have my headphones on and don't hear my brother come in until he and Stevie engage in conversation.

I turn from the keyboard and pick up the gist of what they're discussing quickly enough. It's about the second single we're planning to release.

"No, I like the 808 pattern," Shannon says. He studies the computer screen, one finger over his lips. Around it, he adds, "I think layering on a nice thick ARP would give that part some more depth. Kick up the reverb and let it take over."

Stevie goes back to the screen and manipulates around a bit. "Like this?" He plays it back, and the room's filled with a thumping rich bass that I feel throughout my body as well as hear.

"Yes!" Shannon exclaims. "Early on, Jared wanted something simpler, more stripped down, but—"

"I'm right here," I interject. My eyes shift to Stevie and I nod. "Yeah, I can go with that. Do it."

Both of them turn to me, matching surprised expressions on their faces. Shannon arches an eyebrow. "You're really okay with the change? I mean, you've micromanaged this one even more than usual from the start. This song's your baby."

I allow myself a smile at that. Yes,  _Dangerous Night_  is my baby, and it's been several years in the making.  We're scheduled to drop it in January. I'm both excited and more than a bit apprehensive at the thought. No one really knows how far out on a limb I've gone with this song, and the reason why I put up a hell of a fight over it being selected as a single. It's because I don't want to come up with vague or cryptic answers to the usual questions about meaning and origin and the rest.

"Yeah, I'm okay with it. You were right about layering that bass on thick like that." I slide the headphones back in place and turn to the keyboard again. But not before I miss the puzzled frown that passes between Shannon and Stevie.

 

***

 

The days that follow are wholly consumed with Shannon's move. I spend as much time with him as I possibly can, keeping my flailing emotions firmly in check as much as I can. I stay busy with that, and with jamming as many recording sessions in with him as we can until it's time for him to leave.

On the surface, Lanie and I seem fine. No one remarks on anything indicating differently, and indeed, it's only hindsight that tells me the rift begins to form around this time. Only when Katia makes her first demand on me since the European trip does the hairline fissure between us begin to form a noticeable crack.

Lanie takes it exceedingly well when I tell her I am taking Katia out in public. Too well, considering I am to spend the entire afternoon with Katia, a date that will extend well into the evening with all she has on our itinerary. A sharp look when I tell her is the only obvious sign that she's upset. It disappears quickly, and then Lanie's features soften as she gives a careless shrug. "Have fun," she says, with only the slightest twinge of sarcasm in her voice.

Katia has chosen casual locations to be seen together. Places that would indicate a deeper, day-to-day relationship between us. Places like the grocery store, the park, a bistro where we take a light lunch seated outdoors, a couple of department stores, finally culminating in dinner at a favorite Italian restaurant, seated in a highly visible table at the window facing Sunset. Paparazzi have been conspicuously present at each place, relentlessly snapping pics.

Katia reaches across the table and holds my hand in clear view of anyone looking in at us, and there are quite a few who are. I allow the contact, studiously ignoring the sensation of being in a fishbowl. "You did well today, Jared," she smiles. "Enough that I forgive you for leaving London early." Under the table her sandal-clad toe begins an exploration of my calf under my pants leg.

I pull my leg away and give her a look that should speak volumes. "Knock it off. The pap have gotten enough photos for a lifetime. That's what this is about. And  _only_  what this is about."

"No, it's not." Katia sips her wine, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. "I need more." She sets her glass down. "We're going to spend tonight together. And I hope what happened in Paris won't happen again. I'm tired of this, Jared. Either you deliver the goods," her voice lowers. "Or I will."

I swallow hard, my head spinning, choosing my words carefully. "You know," I say slowly, "graphic technology is an incredible, ever-evolving, ever-improving art."

Katia tilts her head to the side, frowning. "Meaning?"

I lean over the table a little, resting my chin in my other hand. "In recent years, photo manipulation has come a long way. Photoshop, when in the hands of a skilled user, can and does fool experts. And the world as a whole has grown in knowledge of what technology can do."

Katia's expression clears as she understands what I'm getting at, and she smirks. "Are you willing to gamble your career on that?"

"What if I am?"

"You're not." Katia shakes her head. "I know you, Jared. You won't take that risk. Not when you're about to embark on a tour, when you have a film and an album releasing in a few months, and another film you're shooting in less than a year. The slightest scandal at this point—it could derail everything. You're not about to let those photographs get out and just hope people will assume they're fakes."

"I'm not about to spend the night with you, either." I sit back and cross my arms over my chest. Anger thuds dully in my head. "I've come to realize one thing, Katia, something I should've kept in the forefront of my mind all along. And that is, your career needs my cooperation a hell of a lot more than mine needs yours." I pick up my water glass and ease my dry throat.

Katia's eyes are tempestuous. But ever mindful of the lingering paparazzi outside still snapping photos, she maintains a smile as she takes my hand again the instant I let go of the glass. "Perhaps you care nothing for your own career, or perhaps you're right...perhaps photos of you having sex with another man will be dismissed as fake, or they won't affect your image." She pauses, a derisive smirk replacing the flirtatious smile. "However, I don't believe your precious Lanie is as willing to allow her secrets out as you suddenly seem to be willing to out yourself."

The mention of Lanie by name gives me a jolt. My hand in Katia's tightens enough that Katia gives a gasp and tries to pull hers away as I hiss, "How do you know her name?"

"Let me go," Katia's voice is both startled and strained. It raises slightly as she continues, "You're hurting me, Jared!"

Other diners are starting to look our way, but I ignore them. "How. Do you know. Her name?" I repeat, enunciating each word clearly. I can feel the thin bones under the pressure of my fingers, fingers that long to snap them like twigs. People are still looking at us, and finally I loosen my grip a little. I sit back in my seat, my mind whirling, my disbelief and fury barely contained.

Katia yanks her hand from mine, glaring at me as she shakes it. "Uncouth bastard," she murmurs, and finishes her wine. 

"Answer me, Katia."

Katia gives a long, drawn-out sigh and when she speaks, it's in a flat tone. "Marlena JoAnn McCarty Dylan. Born January eighteenth, nineteen-eighty-four in Ely, Minnesota. Only child of Mark and Elaine McCarty. Mother died when she was four, father died two years ago. Owner of McCarty Camp, a hunting and fishing retreat near Tower, Minnesota. Ex-wife of Todd Dylan...married twelve years, divorced last year. Mother of Shelby Dylan, age eleven. Todd Dylan is in jail on multiple charges ranging from trespassing to arson and drugs, but before that, he'd won custody of their daughter." Her eyes sparkle with triumph. "But Lanie fled the state illegally with her." Her smile widens as my breathing becomes ragged. "I knew there was a reason you refused to identify her. Jared, you should know by now there's nothing Papa and I can't find out if we want to."

I pin her down with an unblinking stare, refusing to let her know she's rattled me as much as she has. "It doesn't matter. Get it through your head, Katia. I'm not fucking you. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever again."

She stares back unflinchingly. "You've been harboring a kidnapped child and the child's kidnapper, Jared. If I release those pictures and tell what I know, your career will take a double hit. Lanie will go to jail, and her kid will be whisked back to Minnesota and some foster home before any of you knew what hit you."

My jaw clenches. I get to my feet, and my back gives a protesting groan in response. With a bravado I'm far from feeling, I point a finger in her face, hissing, "You can't touch me. You can't touch Lanie. You've got nothing but a few racy pictures, half-assed information and empty threats, Katia."

Katia stares back without flinching, fire snapping in the glass-green depths of her eyes. "We'll see, won't we?"

I don't answer. I'm already halfway out the door of the restaurant before she finishes speaking.

 

***

 

When I get home, all is quiet. I make my way to the bedroom, where Lanie's sitting up in bed, phone in her hand. Her hair is loose and drapes over her shoulders. Her eyes are fixed on the phone and she doesn't see me come in at first. Whatever she's looking at has her whole attention, and whatever it is, instinctively I know it's nothing good. Apprehension fills me as she finally looks up at me, and that apprehension quickly turns to alarm at the expression on her face.

"What is it?" I ask, shrugging off my jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door.  "Did the pap pics already hit the wire?" I make a derisive sound. "They sure don't waste much time these days, do they."

Lanie's voice has a distinct edge. "I don't know. I haven't seen them yet."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure they'll be all over the socials by morning." I shrug and go to the closet, searching for a pair of comfortable track pants. "So what are you looking at, then?"

When she doesn't answer, I turn. Lanie's face is pale, her lips thin. Her eyes are fixed on me, a look of anger, of horror, of...almost disgust in them. "What is it?"I ask, frowning. I've never seen her look at me like this before.

Lanie's throat works as she swallows hard. "Someone's accused you of rape, Jared. They're saying you raped a sixteen-year-old girl."


	8. Lanie

Jared freezes.  A heavy silence falls, and for a moment the only sounds in the room are the whisper of the night breeze through the slightly open patio door and my heartbeat, thudding like a bass drum in my ears. Then slowly, he turns around. The flurry of emotions that cross his face are there and gone so quickly I'm not sure what they are. And when he speaks, his voice seems carefully controlled, maybe even light. "Reading the gossip sites again?"

I shake my head. "No. This is a news site."

Jared finally moves toward me, his eyes not leaving mine. "What news site, and what is it saying?"

I glance at the phone in my hand. "It—it's naming you and at least a dozen other famous men for—" I can barely choke the words out— "sex crimes." I hold my phone out to him, my hand visibly shaking. "Read it for yourself."

At first, Jared doesn't move to take the phone. Instead, his eyes are still fixed on mine, intent and searching, but otherwise giving away no expression.

"Read it," I repeat, gesturing with the phone.

Without breaking the stare, Jared slowly takes the phone from me. Then his eyes drop to the screen as he begins to read.

When he's finished, he looks up at me, his expression now oddly closed, a stark contrast from before. "So," he says, his voice still quiet and even, "you stumbled on these bits of old rumors and totally misconstrued fanfiction, all nicely repackaged into some kind of exposé on a blog, and you believe it."

"I didn't say that I believe it."

Jared's eyes sweep over me and a sardonic smile touches his lips.  "No, Lanie, you didn't. You didn't have to." He tosses the phone on the bed, turns, and walks out, grabbing his jacket as he passes by it. The sound of the door slamming closed behind him reverberates through the room long after he's gone.

 

***

 

Sixteen hours after Jared left the compound, I meet Flora for lunch at Verve, a soup-and-salad place in Studio City. David and Gene accompany me as usual, but I tell them they don't need to stay glued to my side, and I'll text when I'm ready to leave.

"Mr. Leto prefers that we stick close," Gene reminds me, his dark eyes signalling no argument. "He called this morning saying that very thing, in fact. He was adamant about it."

 _Well, at least he's talking to someone._  "Fine," I mumble, quelling my anger. "Then—please don't be offended, guys, but—but I need some time alone with my friend." I pause at the entrance of the restaurant and smile, knowing exactly how to get them to back off. "It's—y'know—  _girl_  stuff."

David and Gene exchange a glance, and David nods. "Of course, Lanie. We'll grab our own table."

"By the way," I venture as we step inside the small restaurant, keeping my voice as casual as I can manage. "Did Jared say where he was when he called? Or what time he'll be home?"

"No, I'm afraid he didn't," David replies, his expression stoic and unreadable as usual. "He said he'll be in touch later with us or with Jimmy if he plans to be gone overnight again."

"I see. Thanks." I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice calm, as if Jared's absence is of no import to me. But inside, I'm screaming.

Flora arrives a moment or two later. We're seated, and our orders are quickly taken by an attentive waiter. David and Gene are shown to a booth nearby.

After our food arrives, and after small-talk about how different December in California is from Minnesota, her design projects and Christmas which is coming up very soon, I finally break down and unload on my friend. Flora sits silently as I tell her everything—Jared's all-day date with Katia, my web-surfing while looking for a job which led to me to somehow stumbling on the blog that culminated in Jared slamming out of the house and peeling off into the night in his Bronco. As I speak, Flora grabs her phone and goes to the website I direct her to.

"Well. Nice to know you listened to me about snooping on gossip sites," Flora remarks several minutes later as she puts her phone away. She takes a bite of her salad, chews, swallows, and then makes a face. "God. I  _said_  no arugula." She takes a hefty swallow of her lemon water.

"They probably use pre-mixed spring blend or something," I reply. "Look. I  _wasn't_ snooping on gossip sites. It was a link to a legitimate news blog. At least it  _seemed_  like a legitimate news blog."

"And on said 'legitimate news blog', as if such a thing even exists, is Jared's name, his photo, and handy links for the so-called evidence. Clicking on the links takes you to...?" she trails off and gives me a hard, thin smile.

"A gossip site," I say with a sigh. "Multiple gossip sites that I looked at, in fact. I know that  _now._ I didn't know it last night."

Flora cocks an eyebrow. "And you wonder why he's pissed." She goes back to her salad, industriously picking out the detested arugula and dropping it on her napkin.

"I don't wonder why he's pissed, Flora. I  _know_  why he's pissed. But taking off all night and not answering calls or texts isn't the way to deal with it." I turn my focus on my vegan ravioli, picking at it disinterestedly. "He might not be back tonight, either. I need to talk to him. To apologize." I shove the ravioli around with my fork, feeling Flora's gaze on me but refusing to meet it. "I fucked up and I know that."

"No. Really? You think?" Flora drawls.

I scowl at her sarcasm, my defenses firing up. "Well, still, I can't help wondering why these stories still circulate years later if there's nothing to them."

Flora sets her fork down. "Oh, Jesus. Lots of reasons, and I'll give you just a few. Because one—there are those out there who get off on someone of Jared's status taking a fall. Because two—some disgruntled groupie wannabe didn't get him into bed and this is her way of getting revenge. But mostly? Because three—nothing sells ad space like sex, or in this case, a sex scandal involving a celebrity. It's the best clickbait there is." Flora points at my phone, sitting on the table between us. "The people that write and publish trash like this are probably raking in the bucks as we speak. This new expose piece especially. With all the names on there, it's a one-stop-shop. People won't be able to resist, especially in light of the whole MeToo thing going on."

It's my turn to point at my phone. "Did you notice she deliberately refused to use the word 'alleged'? What kind of journalist _does_  that?"

Flora smiles. "A bitter, self-righteous twat, with zero journalistic integrity. She's just asking to get nailed for libel from all sides, which she should be. I've known and worked closely with a few of the guys she's named besides Jared. I've worked with people who've worked with them. While I don't know what happens 24/7 on movie sets, I've got plenty of inside access and I've got instincts. Sad thing is, most likely she'll get away with it. Any backlash would just play into her hands, and the lawyers and PR people repping these guys know that. So unless there's actual evidence, they ignore it." Then her smile fades. "The way things are now, though, I'm not sure they should keep ignoring it. But answer me something, Lanie. Do  _you_  believe Jared is capable of any of this? Tell me the truth."

I chew my bottom lip as flashbacks to 2003 float through my mind's eye. "The truth?" My voice is thin and shaky, and I make huge effort to control it. "I don't know. They've toured the world with girls throwing themselves at him everywhere they go. Jared could take his pick, and it'd be really naive to think he didn't take advantage of that. I'm sure the other guys did, too. And I highly doubt checking their ID's was part of the process."

"Undoubtedly." Flora rests her chin in her hand. "But the age of the girls is not the only thing I'm referring to. I'm referring to the way these encounters supposedly went down. You know Jared better than most anyone, so you should know what's in character for him or not. The way his behavior is described during...well...during the acts, and if there's anything you think that rings authentic in these claims." She gestures at the phone again. "That one in particular, the new story about the sixteen-year-old, describes rape. I don't mean statutory rape. I mean as in coercion, forced, without consent." She makes a disgusted sound. "At least she's trying to say that  _now,_  but from the sounds of it, she seemed a perfectly aware and willing participant, and there's plenty of detail. A little too much titillating detail, hardly the way a traumatized sexual assault victim would describe it. Don't you think so?"

I swallow hard and feel sick. "I haven't read the whole thing. Jared came home before I got a chance to do much more than click the link. I don't think I can stomach it after reading everything else. Especially after the way he stormed out of the house, I haven't wanted to even look at my phone except to try to call and text him."

"Well, maybe you should've read it, and you'd see what I mean instead of jumping the gun like you did." Flora takes a bite of her bread stick.  Around it, she adds,"The really interesting thing about that one is that it supposedly took place back home."

"Back home?" I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, in Minnesota."

At my wide-eyed stare, Flora nods. "Yeah. Weird, huh?" She shakes her head. "In 2003, at the Minnesota State Fair when 30 Seconds to Mars opened for Chevelle."

I stare at her, unsure I've heard correctly. "What?"

Flora nods. "Yeah. This woman claims at the time she was sixteen and she was there in the pit up front. She says she got a guitar pick wrapped up in a note from Jared to go to the bus after the show." She laughs. "God! Can you even imagine him doing something that juvenile? Makes him sound like the high school quarterback slipping a note to the head cheerleader to meet him under the bleachers after the big game. Seriously, how pathetic is that?"

"Oh, my God," I whisper, as the room begins to spin.

Flora peers at me intently. "Jesus, Lanie, you're white as a sheet! What's wrong?"

I barely hear her. I'm reaching for my phone, my hand trembling so much I bump and nearly knock over my water glass. "Flora, I need to read this story, and then we have to go back to my house. I have something I need to show you."

 

***

 

"I don't understand," Flora says. She's sitting on the end of my bed, her arms crossed in her lap. Her eyes are fixed on the little silver object in my hand, and they slowly lift to meet mine. "You said you didn't know who Jared was when you found him in Oak Creek Canyon."

I shake my head. "No, I never have actually said that. Jared assumed I didn't know, and...I've just let him assume it."

"For fuck's sake, Lanie. Why?" Flora's dark gaze is intent, boring into my eyes. "Why would you do that? Why the hell didn't you tell him the truth?"

I tear my eyes away, unable to bear the dismay and rising anger in my friend's face. "I don't know," I mumble. "I guess because it felt like he clung so hard to the belief that he'd found someone with no preconceived ideas about him. Someone who accepted him exactly as he is seemed so important to him. He felt safe with me. He opened up to me in a way he wouldn't if he knew I was once just another face in the crowd. And the longer he believed it, the more upset I knew he'd be if I told him I was the girl he rescued from the mosh pit back in 2003. I mean, he doesn't even recognize me from that night and probably wouldn't remember it anyway. It was fourteen years ago, so what was the point of saying anything?"

"Jesus." Flora buries her face in her hands. "Lanie, this—this is completely fucked up." She lowers her hands and looks at me again. "He has to be told."

I've been unable to draw a deep breath since the restaurant, and now it's like there's no oxygen in the room. "Oh, God, Flora, promise me you're not going to tell him."

She laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. "Of course I'm not going to tell him. It's not  _my_  job to say 'hey, Jared, your wife's been lying to you for months.'" She gets to her feet, and her face, when she looks at me, is now flushed and fully angry.  Her black eyes pierce mine. "Telling him? That's  _your_  job, Lanie. And I suggest you do it. The sooner the better. Especially if this Shae person you're talking about is the one behind the rape story."

Clutching the silver guitar pick in my hand, I speak quickly, my words tumbling out in a rush. "There's no doubt in my mind that it's Shae. There was just the three of us who saw what Jared gave me. That's Liz, Shae, and me. Liz died six years ago in a car accident, and Shae's exactly the type who would do something like this. Back then she always had to be the center of attention and would lash out if anyone else got the spotlight. She had a massive crush on Jared, too, so it makes perfect sense. Like you were talking about before, the rejected groupie thing. But Flora—"

Flora holds up a hand, freezing my words in my throat. Her voice is cold, clipped, and bitter. "You know, when Jared fell in love with you, I thought to myself,  _finally._  After all these years Jared has  _finally_ found the one woman in the world who wouldn't mess with his head or use him for her own gain. Someone who'd be a rock of stability for him, someone he can trust completely, someone down-to-earth and honest— _Christ!"_  The last words she utters in a hiss, her eyes narrowing.

"I've  _been_  all of that! And I've  _never_  used Jared for my own gain!" I exclaim. "How can you accuse me of  _using_  him? He had to talk me into even coming here with him in the first fucking place!"

Flora stands before me with her arms crossed, her demeanor and expression steely. "Maybe you have, and maybe you haven't, but does that even matter? The point is, he fell in love with you and married you, and you just let it all happen while keeping this secret from him. You're actually going to stand here and tell me you've been _honest?_  A lie by omission is still a lie, and you've  _lied_  to him, Lanie. You  _keep_  lying. Every single fucking  _day_  you're lying to him. About who you are, about who he is and was to you." She turns and starts for the bedroom door. Pausing in the doorway, she looks back at me. "I just hope for your daughter's sake that Jared has it in him to forgive you."

 

***

 

"Where's Jared?" Shelby asks that evening as I serve up the delivered pizza I ordered. She grabs a slice and takes a huge bite. Since it's just the two of us, we're eating in the tower in front of the TV.

"He's—busy," I answer noncommittally, helping myself to the small vegan pizza I'd ordered for myself. "With the album and the tour and all, we might not see much of him for the next few weeks. Deadlines and all that." I sit on the floor with the pizza box on the table beside me. Despite the hollowed-out emptiness and cold dread inside me, I sound remarkably casual and force myself to eat. "How was your day?"

"Same as every day," she answers around a mouthful of pizza, equally noncommittal.

"No more problems?" I ask. With the new pap photos of Jared and Katia making their rounds, I'd been a little bit apprehensive about Shelby hearing about them at school. I suppose I'd be more than just a bit worried if something else hadn't taken over my mind all day.

"Nope." Shelby picks up the remote and flips the TV on. "And Mrs. Bryce said I'm all caught up on everything I missed. Aubri and Harlan haven't said sorry, but I didn't expect them to. At least Aubri's leaving me alone. She hasn't said a word to me since I've been back."

"Good." I attempt a smile, but it feels artificial and odd, like a rubber mask on my face.

"So, what time is Jared gonna be home?" she persists.

Good question. More texts and phone calls have gone unanswered, and I've given up trying. "I'm not sure. He's got a lot going on, especially now that Shannon's in Seattle, but I'm sure it won't be much longer."

 

***

 

It's actually close to midnight when I hear the Bronco pull in. I grow a little weak with relief, but that's battling with apprehension when I remember Flora's parting shot before she walked out of my bedroom and, presumably, out of our friendship. My heart aches at the realization that I've lost the one real friend I've made since arriving in California.

While I think she's overreacting, I really can't blame Flora for being angry. She's been Jared's friend for years. In fact, she probably actually knows him a whole lot better than I do, just in a different way. Which means she's most likely right about how he'll react once he knows what I've kept from him.

Will Jared forgive me? Will he understand what, in good part, I'm struggling to even understand myself? I mean, why did I keep quiet the fact that I knew him the instant our eyes met in that pre-dawn light as he lay injured and dying? Was it because it was somehow easier for me to deal with him that way, or because I liked the fact that he let his guard down and was simply himself with me—open, honest, and vulnerable? All of which made me feel like someone different...someone special. Was that it?

It's a long time before Jared comes into the bedroom, and by then I feel as though I've gone eight rounds in a boxing ring with myself. I lay facing the patio door, the lights off, but my eyes are wide open, staring out into the night. I hear him getting undressed and I'm rigid, frozen, wondering what his first words will be. Kind or harsh? Or will he just stay silent and get into bed like nothing happened?

Jared doesn't keep me waiting. There's movement of the blankets, and then Jared silently slips into bed behind me. Everything goes still, and I close my eyes. For a moment I can't even hear him breathing. Then I feel him slide over to me, wrapping an arm around my waist. He says nothing, and I don't move, I don't open my eyes or give any indication that I'm wide awake and keenly aware of his presence. A waft of unfamiliar earthy, spicy cologne reaches me as the air in the room stirs with his movements.

Then there's a tickle of facial hair as he presses a soft kiss on my bare shoulder before he moves away, over to the far side of the bed. The strange cologne scent faintly lingers between us for a moment, and then it too is gone.

Making a concerted effort to keep my breathing deep and regular, I open my eyes again and stare out the patio door as the thousands of city lights in the distance run together in a wet blur.


	9. Jared

I haven't been into the L.A. club scene in more years than I care to remember. Partly because I'm not a drinker. I haven't been in a long time. Also because hanging out in a bar watching a thousand so-called friends falling all over themselves while grinding against someone they'd never consider fuckable while sober is not my idea of a good time. Nor do I particularly enjoy the hangover afterward, or worrying that I did something the night before that not only do I regret, but was caught doing by the paparazzi who maintain a constant presence outside these establishments.

But then there comes a time in everyone's life to say fuck it. For me, tonight happens to be that night. I'm pissed off. I'm pissed off at the whole fucking world, in fact. At my wife who's chosen to believe the worst about me. At my brother for taking off to set up housekeeping with his girlfriend in Seattle. At Katia and Ivan Valkov who've made my life hell for being who I am, and truthfully, at myself for being who I am, too.

My decked-out and flame-painted Bronco is hardly a low-profile vehicle in which to cruise West Hollywood, but it's too late to worry about that now. I'm just glad I have a rudiment of concealing accessories stashed away in it. The last thing I feel like doing is getting mobbed by the scads of tourists strolling up and down the sidewalks, gathering in bunches at the corners amid dope dealers and hookers of both genders plying their trades.

I wait as a parked SUV's back-up lights come on, and grab the spot the second it's vacated. Throwing twenty bucks in the meter, I stroll toward the nearest club, knowing the black bandana wrapped around my head and the tinted glasses—Carreras, but still the ugliest and nerdiest things I've ever seen—are a ridiculous combination and probably do little to conceal my identity. The loud, bass-heavy music bursting out into the street as the doors open for patrons coming and going promise an evening of getting lost in a crowd. I welcome both gladly.

If Shannon still lived here, he'd jump at the chance to join me bar-hopping, something he hasn't managed to talk me into doing in years. I can imagine the shit I'd get if he was here, watching me get buzzed on a single Chivas Regal and Coke. The taste of alcohol reminds me of some kind of vile medicine, but it has the desired effect. I feel my anger and stress peel away as I stand at the bar, watching the action on the huge dance floor. Despite being in such close proximity to people, no one seems to recognize me. It's an odd and liberating feeling.

Soon, I realize why. A look around the room and I realize I'm by far not the only celebrity in the place. No A-listers, they're more at home at the Windows Lounge at the Four Seasons, but a few respectable names are dotted here and there amid the young, hip clientele. Younger and hipper than I am, anyway.

Two more drinks and I'm well on my way to feeling young and hip, not to mention hammered. I still have enough presence of mind to realize I passed my non-existent alcohol limit a while ago and should get the hell out of here before I do or say something stupid to the few people—women, mostly—who've actually recognized me and engaged in conversation. And so I extricate myself with polite excuses and pull my jacket on, weaving my way to the exit.

But I have no intention of going home. Not only am I not willing to face Lanie, but I'm reasonably sure I'm in no condition to drive. Besides, I'd noticed another club at the end of the street. As long as I'm already shit-faced, I may as well check that one out, too. I head up the block toward it, my head buzzing pleasantly. I can hear the muffled but thumping house music from half the block away.

A couple of overly made-up hookers, a blonde and a redhead, linger near the club entrance, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices. Their conversation halts as I draw near and I brace myself for the pitch. I haven't been close enough to a streetwalker to get hit on by one in years. I try to think of something caustic but witty to say back to them, but my brain doesn't seem willing to come up with anything.

The prostitutes don't roll out the usual lines. Instead, they check me out head to toe, smiling appreciatively at me, and then at each other. "Well, well. Look at him, will you? Fresh meat," one murmurs in a very deep voice.

"Mmm-hmmm. Cute, in a rather  _odd_  way," the other remarks. Her voice is even deeper than her friend's. "Lose the bandana, honey," she calls after me as I reach the door of the club. Her voice sounds like she's been smoking Camel non-filters for forty years. Either that, or—

I turn and stare as realization dawns. They're not hookers. They're drag queens. The one in the red wig smiles and waves. "Let that pretty hair of yours down," he/she suggests. "You won't get any action wearing that hideous Aunt Jemima do-rag."

I turn from them and look up at the marquee over the entrance. Caution, ingrained from years of being in the public eye, make me pause. That would be just what I need, to be photographed going into Garrity's, one of the hottest gay clubs in WeHo. Automatically I glance around, trying to spot any paparazzi lurking about. The street lights swim together in a blur.

Fuck it. So what if they do. At the very least, there's not much chance of getting swamped by fangirls here, and most gay guys are a little more reticent about swarming a celebrity than the typical straight woman. Plus, I've heard the drinks are generous in this club. Besides, I can't deny I have a certain appreciation for the male form. The more scantily attired and sweaty the better. What the hell? Grinning at the pair of drag queens, I pull the bandana off and let my hair tumble free over my shoulders. "Is that better?"

"Yes! See? Gorgeous," the blonde gushes and drops his/her cigarette, grinding it out with a stiletto heel. He/she comes over to me and fluffs my hair out a little, making appreciative noises. "You're not my type, I've never gone for the wild and wooly kind, but darling, I guarantee you'll be someone's type in there." He/she plays with my beard and giggles. "Hmmm. Soft and thick, but I bet your face is just a dream without it. And those glasses are  _divine!"_

"Crystal, enough fussing over him or you'll run him off!" The redhead admonishes. He/she says to me, "Don't mind Crystal...she's such a tart when she's had a few too many Cosmos."

"Oh, blow me, Ginger," Crystal rasps.

I hesitate a moment, and then slide the Carerra's off. I put them on Crystal and pat her/his cheek. "They look good on you." Crystal squeals, delighted, as I open the club door. The bass is so loud it almost pushes me back.

"Enjoy yourself, sweetie," Crystal coos. Ginger smiles, giving me a little fluttering wave with bright red tipped fingers. I wave back and step into the foyer, digging for my wallet at the sight of the booth beside the next set of doors and a huge, hairy bouncer wearing a black leather thong, combat boots, and not much else.

The cover charge paid, I step inside to a cavernous dark room full of blue neon and writhing bodies, many of whom are in a state of undress. It's ultra-modern looking and uber-trendy. From the sound of the dance music, the scenery on the dance floor, and the well-stocked top shelf behind the bar, it's just the place I need to feel sorry for myself. I weave my way toward the bar and find an open stool at the end.

Well, I might not be recognized here, but I'm certainly hit on. From all directions. It's not long before I'm pulled out on the dance floor by a buff, waxed, shirtless blonde guy who looks like he spends his every waking moment on a surfboard. 

"I don't dance very well!" I scream in his ear over the music. "Bum back and leg." I point to my right leg. Not to mention that I'm approximately fourteen sheets to the wind right now.

"No problem! Can't move much in here, anyway!" Blondie shouts back and begins to do a vigorous kind of swaying in place, which is all he can manage with bodies pressing in from every angle. He's wearing a pair of tight faded jeans that don't miss a ripple of his muscled thighs or his very nice ass.

I try to dance, but with the crowd and my bum leg and back, It's nearly impossible. And so, when the blonde surfer turns me so my ass is grinding into his crotch, I don't object. Not that I would, anyway. On the contrary, I'm getting incredibly turned on.

My memory gets a little fuzzy at this point. I remember grabbing a table with the blonde surfer the instant one empties. I remember his hand doing some exploring of my thigh while engaging in mindless conversation. I remember the typical pick-up lines about not having seen me before and do I come here often. I remember his mouth on mine. He kisses hard but with lots of tongue which I like, and I respond in kind. As does my cock.

I haven't been with a man since Kristov and that was eight years ago. I can't help but feel it's time I do something about that. After all, like I told Lanie, being bisexual is part of who I am. And the night before we married, Lanie reiterated that very same thing to me. In fact, when she said it she gave me what amounts to carte blanche to do what I want sexually, didn't she? There was no 'forsaking all others' in my vows to her, which was the way she insisted that it be.

But my head's spinning, and not only from alcohol and lust. A twinge of guilt is knocking on the door of my conscience despite my efforts to convince myself that this is okay.

_Shit, Lanie—_

"Let's go," Blondie husks in my ear. His hand is on my crotch, rubbing, driving me mad with desire to get our pants off and get it over with. Meanwhile, I'm returning the favor on his impressive, rock-hard erection under the denim. When I pull away, thinking we're putting on a bit too public of a show, a quick look around tells me that our hot and heavy make-out session is just business as usual in this place.

In the distance I see the two drag queens from outside, each with a young, shirtless man grinding together on the dance floor. In the next booth, a young man with a buzz cut is leaned back, eyes closed, mouth open in ecstasy while another man is working him over much the way Blondie and I are with each other. "Go where?" I ask in a half-gasp, my cock throbbing against the confines of my jeans.

"The back room," Blondie answers, as if it were obvious.

"Back...room?"

"Yeah. Usually me and my friends who come here spend more time in the back room than anywhere else in the place." Blondie grins salaciously. "Trust me, newbie, you'll love it."

I look around the huge, dimly lit club again. Guys are making out everywhere, and the smell of sweat and lust is in the air. I'm in a nice, warm place where everything is out of focus but still darkly, enticingly beautiful. I nod. "Lead the way."

 

***

 

We're nearly to the back of the club, me stumbling and weaving, Blondie clinging to my hand so we don't get separated, when common sense starts kicking in. I don't know this guy, and he's taking me God knows where in the back of a gay nightclub to do God knows what.

 _So what?_ My still-stiff prick argues.

So, I could be mugged or murdered.  _That's_  what. Jimmy, Gene and David would lose their goddamned minds if they saw what I was doing right now. Not to mention Shannon, my mother, Lanie—I yank my hand free. "Hey, listen—I dunno if I wanna go back there," I slur.

"What?" Blondie yells over the music. We're at a closed door and he's pounding on it with his fist, grabbing onto my hand again with the other. "What's the problem?"

"I—uh—"

The door opens. Another bouncer, even bigger and beefier than the one at the front door, beckons Blondie in and in the process I finally get my new friend's name. "Christ! Another one, Shane?" the bouncer booms, looking me over appreciatively. "What didja do tonight, pop a little blue pill?"

"Something a whole lot better than that, Donnie, my boy." Shane winks at me and pats his front pocket. "Back in ten."

"Ten, huh?" I slur. "You work fast."

"Baby, I work  _efficient,"_  Shane laughs. "Come on." He gives my hand another tug into the dark recesses of the hallway in front of us. With my hand in his iron grip and the world swimming alarmingly, I have no choice but to obey. "Dude, you're in for a treat," Shane confides with a huge grin as he leads me further down the hallway, lit only by a thin strip of blue neon overhead and along the bottom of the wall on either side. We pass under an unlit Exit sign.  _That probably violates a number of fire codes,_ I think vaguely.

I begin to hear something, echoing off the concrete walls surrounding me, growing louder as we walk further into the darkness. Several sounds, all of them unmistakable. Slapping skin. Moans and breathy words that leave no room for doubt exactly what this "back room" is all about. A shiver of apprehension pierces through my drunken haze, but excitement quickly shoves it aside.

Then, as we round a corner, a strong hand grips my shoulder from behind, and a smooth, low male voice says, "That's far enough."

Shane tugs on my hand again and turns with an exasperated sigh at encountering more resistance. His eyes fix on the man whose hand is still on my shoulder. "Back off, loser. I found him first," he spits.

"What the fuck do you want?" I growl, trying to shrug the man's hand from me. "Get lost."

The hand on my shoulder tightens. "Afraid I can't do that."

"I'm not interested in a gang-bang," I snap with as much attitude as I can muster.

"All the more reason I suggest you come with me. Now." The man looks down at me and I attempt to make out his features in the ethereal neon light.

He's good-looking, in his late thirties at most. Tall, slender, with fine, chiseled features and wide-set dark eyes. The top of his hair—dark brown, or black—it's impossible to tell in the gloom—is smoothed back and secured in a thin ponytail at the crown, the rest of it is loose and tumbling almost to his shoulders. He's wearing a dark-colored dress shirt, most of the buttons undone and displaying an expanse of white underneath, and snug jeans. Staring up at him, even to my Chivas-addled mind he looks strikingly familiar. If the two men weren't about to brawl in this narrow corridor with me in between them, I'd chase around the surety that I've seen this guy somewhere before.

"Do you understand English, pretty boy?" Shane steps closer, eyes narrowed, teeth bared, nostrils flaring. "Get the fuck out of here! Go find your own fuck!"

I'm now sandwiched between them, thoughts of illicit sex long gone, nausea and the beginning of a headache replacing it. I just want to get out of here before this turns into blows.

Shane stares at the stranger, who stares back unflinchingly. Shane's much bigger and stronger looking, but something in the smaller man's eyes makes him break the gaze.

"Aw, shit. Whatever, man. Fuck all y'all." Shane turns and slouches off, deeper into the dark hallway and disappears around a corner.

"Come on, Jared. Let's get you out of here," the man takes my arm, none too gently, and steers me back the way we came.

At the sound of my name I wrench away, staring at my "rescuer," foggy realization dawning. "Oh, I get it. You own this fine, reputable establishment, right? And you don't want..." I pause and lick my lips, enunciating the words as succinctly as I can in my inebriated state. "Negative PR. A  _scandal._ Right?" I laugh. "Well, I wasn't going to take an ad out in the trades. I just wanted to get my dick sucked like every other guy in this place."

"You'd have gotten a whole lot more than that," the man sighs, urging me forward a bit roughly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. "No, I do not own this place. Nor am I a frequent customer, at least not in the last year. I'm an attorney. And I'm also the husband of someone who cares a great deal about you, someone who'd never forgive me if I allowed what was about to happen to you happen."

I frown up at him. "The fuck are you talkin' about?"

The man holds up a hand, silencing me as he holds the phone to his ear.

"Hey, it's me. Where are you right now?" A pause. "Well, I found him. I'm with him now. Meet us out front of Garrity's. We'll be out in a few minutes." Another pause, during which a sardonic smile crosses the man's perfect lips. " _Yes,_  you heard right. I said Garrity's. We'll be right there."

Bemused, I allow the man to lead me back the way we'd come, out and into the crush of hot, sweaty bodies dancing in the main room. On the way, I bump into Crystal, the blonde drag queen, jiving about on the dance floor with a young latino man. She/he is still wearing my Carreras.

"Darling! Having a good time?" Heavily mascaraed eyes dart to my companion and widen appreciatively. "Ooh, I'd guess  _so!_  What a  _catch!"_  A wink. "Must be beginner's luck. Our dear Alex is the  _epitome_  of hard to get, especially since he went off and married that hunk Kristov a few months ago. Everyone's missed him around here. What's  _your_  secret, sweetie?" With a gale of throaty laughter and without waiting for an answer, Crystal jives away with the latino guy, leaving me to stare at the man beside me who now has a name, and familiarity becomes full-on recognition.

"Come along, Jared." Alex grasps my arm in a no-nonsense grip. Determinedly, he steers me toward the door.

"Fuck that!" I spit, trying to wrestle my arm away from him. "Are you fucking  _kidding_  me? You're Kristov's fucking  _husband?_  What the fuck do you want with me?"

"Nothing, except for you to get out of here in one piece." Grabbing onto me again, Alex cuts through the crowd gracefully, while I'm stumbling at his side, given no other choice but to go along.

"What the fuck do  _you_  care? You don't even  _know_ me."

Alex glances at me, a bitter smile on his lips. "I'm not doing this for you, Jared. I'm doing it for Kristov." His smile grows even more bitter. "Personally, nothing would suit me better than to let you go to the back room and come out with a size twelve asshole and maybe a good dose of HIV for your trouble." 

I feel dizzy and nauseated. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Alex sighs and gestures toward the back of the club."Your twink friend Shane there? He's what's known as bait."

"Huh?"

"He has four or five friends in the back room waiting for him to bring them an idiot like you. They're junkies, and they're barebackers. You do the math."

I ponder this for as long as my addled brain allows me to. "Bullshit," I slur. "Fuck off 'n leemme 'lone. I'm gettin' a drink." I steer toward the bar, but I only get a few steps before Alex stops me.

"Actually, you're not. Now let's  _go."_ He takes my arm in that vise-like grip of his and redirects me toward the front of the packed club. Again, I can do little else but follow along, out the door of the club and on the sidewalk facing Santa Monica Boulevard. Besides, getting some fresh air suddenly sounds pretty good.

Once outdoors and away from the noise and the crowd, I realize just how good. It is, in fact, just what I need. The dizziness and nausea let up a little. I take a deep breath and my head clears just a bit. Blearily, I stare at the man in front of me who's gazing at his phone. "Now what?" I demand.

"Kristov will be here shortly," Alex answers, and pockets his phone.

"Great. Except one thing—I don't wanna  _see_  him. And I need to get to my truck before I get papped out here, so if you'll excuse me..." I turn and make my way around the club patrons outside smoking, my eyes darting around for anyone with a camera aimed my way. But my surroundings are still a blur of lights and solid objects. I squint past it, trying to spot my truck. Making out its shape at the end of the block, I shuffle my way toward it.

Alex appears by my side, studying his fingernails before shoving his hands in his pockets as he keeps pace with my trudging, half stumbling footsteps. "Well, you should've worried about that before you decided to go slumming in WeHo," he remarks.

I shoot Alex a filthy look while I fumble awkwardly in my pocket for my keys and head toward the Bronco. "Whatever," I snap, and stumble off the curb as I go to the driver's side. I grab onto the truck's grille to right myself. I know I'm far too wasted to drive, but the absolute last thing I want right now is to see Kristov. Stubbornly I mutter,"You've done your good deed for the night, so you and your darling husband can do me another favor and fuck off."

Alex ignores me. He looks over the truck, smirking. "Jesus Christ. I'm not sure if this thing is douchey as hell or gay as hell." He looks at me standing at the driver's side door, still fumbling with the FOB on my keyring. "But good thing for you we were having dinner down the block. It's our weekly date night, you know."

"How romantic," I mutter, still fumbling with my FOB. 

"Yes, it was, until Kris spotted your truck. He recognized it as yours and for whatever reason, he suspected you might be in trouble. He insisted that we split up and find you. " He lets out a humorless laugh. "And I'm the lucky one who ended up in Garrity's, also known as the gay meat market of WeHo, and found you just in the nick of time."

If this cold-eyed, sneering asshole expects a thanks from me, he's not getting it. "How very  _heroic_ of you," I drawl instead, finally pushing the right button on the FOB to unlock the truck. And where  _is_  your beloved?" Santa Monica Boulevard tilts back and forth under my feet a bit as I reach for the door handle. I feel my bad knee buckle as I pitch forward.

A pair of arms that do not belong to Alex are the only thing that keep me from smashing my face into the side of the truck. The arms pull me back against an all-too familiar hard body. 

"Christ, Jared, you're absolutely wasted," that low, warm, Russian-accented voice murmurs in my ear. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

Alex looks beyond my shoulder and nods, his eyes narrowing a little. "It could've been worse. You wouldn't believe where I found him."

Kristov's voice fills with alarm. "Not the back room? Oh God, Jared! Are you all right?" 

I close my eyes as Kristov's voice blankets me. The sound of it, his unique scent and the feel of his body so close to mine overwhelms me with memories piercing through the fog of my intoxication, memories I thought I'd shoved away into some far recess of my brain, never to see the light of day again.

"I'm fine, I'm juss—" I groan, my stomach giving a sickening lurch as my conscience wavers in and out, the unreality of this entire night slamming into me, making something inside me short-circuit. "Get the fuck  _away_  from me!" I wrench myself out of Kristov's supportive hold. I clutch the door handle of the Bronco, trying to clear my head and remain on my feet. Anger, potent and hot, swells inside me, and the rising nausea burns in my throat. How  _dare_  Kristov act all fucking concerned about me after what he's done? The bastard ruined my fucking life—

"Jared—" Kristov's voice echoes from very far away. "I know where you live. Let us take you home."

 _"Leemee...alone!"_  It sounds like a scream in my head, but it's no more than a gasping, froggy croak as I battle to keep my stomach in its place. A rush of saliva fills my mouth and I know what's coming next. Still holding onto the door handle of the Bronco with both hands, my head drops between my arms.

"I think he's about to pass out," Alex says, seemingly from a great distance.

"Not before he vomits," Kristov adds. "Oh, God, yes, he's going to puke. Help me hold him. I'll get his hair."

The world tilts crazily, my stomach leaps up into my throat, and the last thing I remember are their arms holding me upright as the product of the last few hours makes a violent return trip.

 

***

 

When I next open my eyes, the sun coming through the nearby window isn't morning light. The angle and intensity tell me it's closer to noon. Groaning, I turn over, stretching my arm out but I encounter nothing but empty space.

I blink rapidly, my head throbbing, my mouth dry and foul-tasting. My eyes don't seem to want to open all the way, my body feels stiff and achy, my back hurts like a bitch, and I want nothing more than to fall back asleep for a week.

Instead, I look around as much as my half-open, throbbing eyes will allow. The room is unfamiliar. Done in hues of warm brown, hunter green and tan. Masculine, with clean lines, but too large, too homey, and too unique to be a hotel.

_Where the fuck am I?_

Unable to bear the light stabbing like needles into my brain via my eyes, I squint them closed, trying to recall the previous night. Driving around aimlessly, ending up on Santa Monica Boulevard in the club district of West Hollywood. Venturing into a bar, having a drink, which led to another. And another. Leaving and ending up at—

"Oh, God," I moan, hoping it was all a nightmare and knowing for sure it wasn't.

Christ, I got absolutely trashed last night. More than absolutely trashed. Try  _obliterated_. And now I'm laying in a strange bed in nothing but my underwear.  _Please, God, tell me I didn't pick up a woman...or a man...and get laid last night._

I dismiss the possibility. I don't feel as though I had sex, and I'm pretty sure I would be waking up naked if I had.

So then...what the fuck did I do? And where the fuck am I now? Have I spoken to Lanie? Has she tried to call or text? Did I call or text her? Where the fuck is my phone, anyway? Who the hell undressed me? And where the hell are my goddamned clothes now?

"Holy shit," I moan, pulling the vacant pillow toward me and over my head, trying to think past the headache and rolling stomach. My whole body hurts this morning. Or afternoon, or whatever time it is. "Fuck!" I rasp, my voice hoarse and reverberating in my head.

Eventually, the need to piss pulls me out of the strange bed. I pad across the thick tan carpeting of the strange room, to the en-suite bathroom. I don't bother turning on the light or looking in the mirror, knowing I absolutely don't want to see what would be reflected in it. Looking around, there are no personal adornments of any kind to give me a clue whose place I've found myself in but right now emptying my bladder takes precedence over the nagging suspicion that I'm someplace I absolutely shouldn't be. I flush the toilet and leave the bathroom, still trying to puzzle it out, to piece together what little fragments I remember.

My body aching, my clothes nowhere to be found and with no idea whose house I'm in, I make my way to the window, squinting past the pain to look outside and try to get my bearings. There's a beautifully landscaped yard, and many high-end homes in sight around this one. It's quiet, peaceful, and suburban in feel. Whoever's house I'm at, I think with an odd sense of relief, they clearly have money.

But who is  _they?_ The last thing I want to do is step out of this room in nothing but yesterday's boxer briefs to find out.

"In case you're wondering, you're at my house in Los Feliz," Kristov says behind me.

I whirl around, the movement making me lose my balance for a moment as vertigo swims through me. I clutch the windowsill with both hands to stay upright.

"Holy shit," I gasp, staring at the slim, dark-haired figure leaning in the now open doorway. He's wearing an unbuttoned pale blue denim shirt and snug jeans. His long hair is tied back in a loose ponytail.

Flashes of the previous night cross my mind like a bad movie print and I battle with a flood of conflicting emotions. I'm standing there in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and vaguely think that I should be embarrassed about that. Kristov has seen everything there is of me to see, but still.

 Finally, I manage to clear my throat, nod and say quietly, "Hi, Kristov."

He smiles cautiously. "Good morning, Jared. How are you feeling?"

It takes me a moment to find my voice again. "You really wanna know? Like I was hit by a tank, and then thrown into a blender for good measure." I crawl back into the comfortable bed and throw the covers over my head, groaning piteously.

"Yes. Drinking that much when you're not used to it tends to have that effect. Coffee?"

Pulling the blanket down again, I look at Kristov, and for the first time I notice he's holding a steaming mug, which he holds out to me as he crosses the room. "I'm not sure how you take it. It's...well...you and I used to always drink tea in the morning. But Alex has me preferring coffee these days. If you'd rather have tea, I can—"

"No, no. Coffee's fine," I murmur. I sit up again and take the offered cup gratefully. "Thank you." I blow the steam from the mug and take a sip. It's hot, and very good. I tell him so, and Kristov smiles.

"Yes, well, it's your brother's company. Black Fuel. SL Blend is mine and Alex's favorite. In fact, it's the only kind we buy."

"Great," I say weakly, and sip some more. "I'll be sure to tell him so." My head throbs dully. "I don't suppose I could bother you for some Tylenol or something too?"

Kristov reaches into his pocket and produces a bottle of Ibuprofen. "Will this do?"

"Absolutely." Kristov opens the cap and shakes a couple of the brown tablets into my hand. I swallow them with another sip of coffee. "Thank you," I say gratefully. "God, my head." I hand the cup back and rub my temples, grimacing.

Kristov sets the bottle on the table next to the bed, and then sits on the edge of the bed, regarding me. "Of all the ways I imagined we'd meet again, this wasn't one of them."

"That makes two of us," I murmur, squinting against the brightness in the room. Kristov is a silhouette against the backdrop of sunlight. I nod at the window. "Can you please close the blinds?"

Kristov gets to his feet and does what I ask. Without the stabbing beams of light in my eyes amplifying my pounding headache, I can make him out more clearly. He's studying me, a strange light in his eyes, but his gaze is focused and direct. "Why did you do it?" he asks quietly, his face solemn. "Get drunk like that? You've never been a drinker, Jared."

I tear my eyes away and take my cup again, smiling a bit. "You didn't know me in my wild years, Kris. Shannon and I were pretty crazy back in the good old days." I glance up and meet his dark eyes, still studying me intently. I sigh. "I don't know, really. A lot of stuff going on, none of which got resolved by me drinking myself into a stupor and probably making an enormous fool of myself." I shake my head. "Can't wait for  _those_  pap pics to show up online." I laugh, a raspy sound. "It'll just feed into what's already being said about me, I guess."

Kristov's hand covers one of my own. "I guessed that's why you did it. I'm aware of the stories, and the new one that just came out." I look up, and he's nodding. "It's a lie, Jared. I know that. You don't have it in you to rape anyone."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. At least  _someone_  has some." I look away. "Thing is, Kris, I'm not so positive it's a lie. I wasn't exactly an angel in those days. We've played hundreds and hundreds of shows. I've fucked a lot of women while on tour. They've all run into each other after awhile. It's been fourteen years, and those days, that first tour cycle especially, is a blur now. Who's to say at that particular show this didn't happen, just as this woman claims?"

"Perhaps you don't know, but Jared, I  _do_." My eyes fly back to Kristov's. He smiles and his hand on mine squeezes and releases. "Jared, love, you're not the dominant, forceful type.  At the very most, with me you were a power bottom."

I sigh. "That was with you."

"Yes, well. I find it hard to believe there'd be such a drastic difference. Not so different that you'd go so far as to rape someone. Why would you, when women of any age, not to mention a number of men, would give anything to sleep with you?"

"I'm flattered," I mumble and drink some more coffee, glancing around the room. "Where are my clothes?"

"In the dryer. You vomited, and you soiled them. Along with your shoes. They've been cleaned, too." He pauses. "I washed your things after Alex left for work. He's none too happy that we didn't just drive you home instead of here, but I assumed your property is secured with an access code, and you were passed out and in no condition to provide it. So we brought you here, instead."

I tilt my head to the side. "Why are you being so nice to me, Kristov? More to the point, why is Alex being so nice to me? I got the impression last night that he doesn't care for me much."

Kristov sighs. "Ah, yes. Alex is quite insecure where you're concerned. He may not care much for you, but he knows I do, and I guess last night he wanted to prove that he loves me enough to put his feelings aside for mine." He looks away and his voice lowers. "He also knows the thing that freed me to marry him is something that's causing you enormous pain. Mitigating circumstances, I think is what he'd call it."

I snort. "Yeah, that. Is helping me out last night your way of making up for giving those pictures to Katia?" I finish the coffee. "Because I hate to say it, but that's still an ongoing, unsolved problem in my life."

"I know it is. I saw the pap photos of the two of you yesterday. I've never seen a man look so uncomfortable and yet try to hard to hide it." When I say nothing, Kristov shrugs. "Perhaps it is my way of trying to atone for what I've done, but that's not what I was thinking about last night when I saw your Bronco down on Santa Monica Boulevard. What I was thinking about was the latest rumors, the fact that you never go clubbing, and that you might need a friend." 

"A friend," I echo softly. "Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I do need a friend."

Kristov gazes across the room, his face tense. "I want to tell you, Jared, at the EMA after-party, I said harsh things to you. Things I didn't mean. I was defensive and felt terribly guilty for being the cause of so much pain in your life. Both when we were together, and now." He looks down at his hands, folded together and pressed between his knees.  "I'm truly sorry."

I take a deep breath. "Kris, what you said that night was the truth. I brought this entire mess on myself. And as for causing pain?  That wasn't one-sided. But we also gave each other a lot of happiness, too. And we're better people for it. Because of how we loved each other, we're able to love even more and even better now."

Kristov tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear and nods, and then draws a long, shuddering breath of his own. "Yes. I suppose you're right," he whispers. He turns to me, and for a moment there's a strange sadness in his dark eyes, a kind of hopelessness in them. Then it's gone again, his eyes once more soft and shiny. "I'll go check to see if your clothes are dry." He gives me a tentative smile. "And if you're hungry, I think I still remember your vegan pancake recipe."

I reach out and gently tug his ponytail. "I think that might be a bit much. A piece of toast is about all I'll be able to manage."

"All right. And Jared, if you can, I'd like you to stick around here for awhile before going home."

I cock an eyebrow. "Why? Won't Alex be pissed?"

A shrug, but a shadow crosses his face. "He might be, but I want to ask him if he'd be willing to discuss these allegations with you when he comes home. I think he may be able to help you. He's an attorney."

I shrug. "Not necessary. I already have an attorney."

"A business attorney, perhaps, but Alex works in criminal defense."

 _Criminal defense._ The words fall on me like an anvil. "Jesus, Kris," I whisper and lean back against the headboard. My headache thumps dully and my stomach twists into knots all over again. "I hope to Christ it doesn't go that far."

"Well, it's in your best interests to be prepared just in case it does. Alex is good. He's better than good." Kristov gets to his feet. "I'll go get your clothes. Your phone is charging in the living room, and it's been going crazy all morning. So I'll bring your clothes and leave you to get dressed and call or text who you need to." He starts for the door and pauses. "Oh, and we've been invited over to our neighbor's house for a barbecue this evening." He smiles. "You really should join us. I'll call and let them know, but I'm positive you'd be more than welcome."

"I don't know," I mumble, running my hands through my tangled mop of hair. "I don't really do things like neighborhood barbecues. It's kind of awkward, me being a public figure and all. I always feel kind of out of place, and the poor host is left manning the grill while everyone's flocking around me, wanting a piece of my attention. Not my scene, really. But thanks for the offer."

Kristov nods understandingly but says, "I don't think you'll need to worry about that. This neighbor is quite a famous actor himself, though as laid back as he and his wife are, you'd never know it." He snickers. "Well, except he's gorgeous, of course. With beautiful blue eyes like yours," he finishes with a dreamy sigh.

I smile at that. "Oh, yeah? Who?"

"Chris Pine," Kristov answers, throwing me a smile back as he starts for the bedroom door. 


	10. Jared

As Kristov said, my phone has been going crazy all morning. Once I'm dressed and have brushed the horrendous taste out of my mouth—courtesy of the new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste Kristov provided—I scroll through the list of texts and missed calls. I have four new voicemails.

"Still a busy boy," Kristov remarks from the kitchen where he's brewing a fresh pot of coffee. He pokes his head out, coffee cup in hand. "I hope it's nothing urgent."

"It's always urgent," I mumble.

"I remember," Kristov says with a rueful smile, and then he disappears back into the kitchen.

I look at my phone again, the missed calls, the unread texts. Karen Hale, my publicist. Oliver Hatch, my attorney. Carrie Walsh at the Wilshire office. Interscope. Lanie. Several from Lanie, in fact.

Maybe I'm being a stubborn and unreasonable bastard, but I'm not ready to speak to her right now. I'm still angry and hurt at the way she looked at me and that tone in her voice—they were both a clear condemnation, a reflection of everything she'd just read and clearly believed. Undoubtedly, she'll also start asking questions about where I am and where I spent the night, questions I wouldn't know how to answer even if I wanted to. Which I don't. I scroll through the list again, running my free hand through my hair. I don't want to talk to any of them.

But I suppose I should get in touch with Gene, David or Jimmy. That goddamned rape story is probably going viral, and I'm aware that Lanie is meeting Flora in Studio City for lunch today.

Returning to the bedroom, I call Gene. I tell him that he and David are to stick extra-close to Lanie while she's out, warning him that the pap as well as legit news reporters might be extra aggressive. "I know Lanie hates you guys shadowing her, but tough shit. Don't let her talk you into leaving her there."

"You got it."

"And Gene, I may be back late tonight or not until tomorrow," I add. "I'll be in touch with Jimmy to let him know."

Once I'm finished with that call, I scroll down my list again and call Carrie, who assures me nothing's happening that the team can't handle. They're fielding press calls and no-commenting anything that isn't strictly business. "You may want to get in touch with Interscope, though," she says. "They've called twice this morning. The release has come through, and they've emailed you a copy of the document."

I smile. "I have a voicemail from them, too. At least there's a little bit of good news amid this clusterfuck."

"Clusterfuck is right. Something tells me this story isn't going to go away, Jared," Carrie warns. "In fact, it's caused a resurgence in all the other bullshit that's been floating around for years. How's Lanie dealing with it?"

"Not great," I answer honestly. "Listen, I've gotta go and get that release to Liz. Thanks, Carrie."

"No problem. Just hang in there. You know we've got your back," she replies and clicks off.

I check my email and sure enough, there's the release from Interscope. I quickly go through my list of contacts and locate the direct number for Liz Moore.

"It's a go," I tell her voicemail. "Interscope emailed me the release for the music. Text me your email address and I'll forward it on to you." I end the call and return to living room where I flop down on the couch with a sigh. I look at the rest of the missed calls and texts. I'm in no condition to deal with any of it. I toss the phone aside and rub my eyes.

"Finished?" Kristov asks.

"Yeah, for now," I mutter as I glance up.

Kristov's leaning in the archway of the kitchen, a small plate in one hand, fingers of the other hooked through the handles of two cups. His long ponytail is draped over his shoulder, and his shirt is still unbuttoned, giving me a generous view of his lean but sculpted chest and abs.

I rise and go to the dining room table, sitting in the offered chair. Kristov leans over me slightly as he places my refilled coffee cup in front of me, along with a plate with a single piece of toast. I catch a whiff of his scent, and the words slip out before I can stop them. "You still wear the same cologne."

"Yeah," he says with a smile as he goes around the table and takes a seat opposite me. Every move he makes is fluid and graceful, like always. "You remember?"

"Of course," I say and take a bite of toast, followed by a sip of coffee. "Memory is intricately tied to the sense of smell." I study him, the closely trimmed beard and mustache setting off his features beautifully. Christ, he's still so attractive it hurts.

"You're staring," Kristov observes quietly, his eyes locked on mine.

His soft words are the catalyst I need to tear my eyes away and drink my coffee. "I was just thinking about how well your facial hair suits you."

Kristov rubs the just-longer-than-stubble growth on his jaw and gives me a crooked grin. "Thank you. I wish I could say the same about yours." He gestures at me. "Are you growing it for a role?"

It's my turn to touch my beard. "Nah. As conspicuous as it seems to be, I'm not recognized so quickly with it."

Kris nods solemnly. "I read somewhere that the most attractive men tend to hide behind beards."

I wonder if the double entendre is deliberate, but I don't remark on it. "I don't know about all that. Age is catching up to me some," I say instead.

Kristov's penetrating stare leaves me feeling oddly self-conscious. "Not so much." He props an elbow on the table, rests his chin in his hand and studies me with that intense gaze again. "You're still beautiful, Jared. Even with the beard, you're still so incredibly beautiful."

I feel his words penetrating all the way through me. Words should stop at the ears, but Kristov's reverberate deep into my body. I shift in my chair and focus on my toast and coffee, saying nothing. Replying to his praise with a thanks seems so...so trite.

"I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable," Kristov sighs. "I'm afraid I've still not mastered the art of subtlety." I look up, and Kristov continues, "Especially with you, even though things are very different now."

I nod. "Yes, they are."

Kristov glances around the sunlit living room. He sucks in his lower lip and then lets out a little sigh. "Jared," he finally says. "Please understand—I love Alex. He loves me. But—" he turns to face me again. "But I now know what I put you through. The jealousy and possessiveness. The neediness. The constant begging for reassurance. The helpless anger every time I saw a picture of you with a woman when I couldn't be there, every time I sensed you slipping away from me when we were together."

I carefully consider my words. "You had reason to feel that way with me, Kris. I gave you reason all the time. But I don't understand why Alex would be so insecure where I'm concerned." I run my finger around the rim of my coffee cup. "We've barely spent five minutes talking in eight years, and this is the first time we've been alone together since St. Petersburg."

A pained look crosses Kristov's features. "I'm no better at hiding my emotions now than I was then." He sighs. "The last month before the wedding, Alex and I fought viciously. Finally I realized I had to make sure that this was what I truly wanted.

"That night I attended the VMA's with Katia, I was—" he clenches his teeth and his cheeks flush. "That was shortly before the wedding. I went to the VMA's with Katia because I knew you'd be there. I—" he looks away, and his voice drops to a near-whisper. "If things had gone differently that night, I think I would've known I was making a mistake."

"A mistake? Why?"

Kristov looks up and his eyes are glimmering, and the rawness in them makes me catch my breath.  _God, he truly is an open book._

His throat works. "How could I marry one person if there's even a hint of love in me for another, the slightest possibility of—" he looks away again. "How could I be so cruel as to do that?"

Once again his voice penetrates deep inside me, and again, for a moment I can't speak. Kristov's still looking away from me, chewing his bottom lip, while I sit across from him, remembering how it felt that night when Kristov appeared so unexpectedly out of the crowd, Katia Valkov on his arm, and finding out that Katia not only knew about me and Kristov, but that Kristov was the Russian model she was married to. Every emotion swirls in me, and when I find words, I'm not sure which one drives them.

"Kris— " I pause as I grasp for the right thing to say. "We're different people now.  _I'm_  different now. There's a woman in my life, and I'm —"

"Yes, I know. I remember. When we spoke in London you mentioned her. Is she the blonde woman I've seen you photographed with?" He hesitates before adding, "I saw the—uh—pool photos."

Inwardly I cringe."Yes. That's her."

Kristov peers at me intently. "And you're faithful to her?"

"Yeah, I am. As much as I can be, with Katia and her insane demands."

"Then why were you at Garrity's last night?"

My jaw tightens. "Because I got trashed and I had no idea what I was doing. Call it a major lapse in judgment."

Kristov's gaze doesn't waver. "And does this woman—"

"She has a name." I force steadiness into my voice. "Her name is Lanie."

Kristov nods. "Okay. Does Lanie know about us? Or does she think that the photos were a one-time thing?"

I shake my head. "She knows. She knows everything. And now she's determined to get the pictures from Ivan so I won't have to keep up this charade with Katia anymore."

Kristov raises an eyebrow. "How does she propose to do that?"

I grind my teeth together. "Ivan said if I let him fuck Lanie, he'll hand over the photos, the negatives, and the agreement with Katia will be null and void."

"Oh, my God," Kristov breathes, his eyes widening. "I hope you're not going to let that happen."

"Of course not. But she thinks she can come up with a way to get them without having sex with Ivan. I can't imagine how." I finish my coffee, now lukewarm, and press my fingers against my temples. "Jesus, Kris, how the hell am I gonna survive this all the way through filming this fucking movie with Katia, and however long it'll be between wrapping up filming and the premiere?"

"I don't know." A pause. "I'm sure you realize there is another way you could stop everything."

I snort. "Oh yeah? How?"

"Simple. You come out."

I lower my hands and stare at him. "Yeah. Right."

Kristov shrugs. "Well, it would certainly render their ammo against you worthless if you out yourself."

"It would also ruin my career!"

Kristov makes an exasperated sound. "You sound just like you did eight years ago. For Christ's sake, Jared, you won an Oscar playing a gay transgender. I read that you lived and breathed that role twenty-four hours a day, and don't tell me you didn't rely heavily on the fact that you're bisexual to pull that off. I know you did. With your profile now, coming out would do minimal damage to your acting career. It would barely touch you on the music side, and do nothing to you with directing, producing, or your tech companies."

"You sound like Lanie," I mutter.

"Well, perhaps you should listen to her."

Maybe it's the lingering hangover, maybe it's the fresh wave of rumors going around, maybe it's because I'm upset with Lanie, or maybe it's because spending this morning with Kristov has awakened a part of me that's lain dormant for so long and I'm not liking myself for it. Whatever it is, my defenses flame to the surface.

"You know, Kris, this is all so easy for you to say, because in your career, homosexuality is pretty much the norm. But I've seen actors come out and get passed up for roles they're otherwise perfect for." I point at myself and continue, my voice growing harsh, "I haven't worked my ass off for over two decades just to end up typecast or relegated to some bullshit background vanilla roles!"

Kristov doesn't react to my brewing hostility. His voice is gentle as he replies, "I understand that, but I honestly don't think someone of your caliber would be. And wouldn't it be incredibly freeing to just embrace your true nature and be who you are, no longer in fear of discovery, and without the weight of the Valkov's blackmail hanging over you?"

I'm unmoved by his calm attitude. Still defensive, I snap, "Who I  _was,_  you mean."

Kristov arches an elegant eyebrow. "Was?"

I nod. "Yeah,  _was._  That part of my life is in the past. A past there's no reason to drag out for the world to speculate and mock me about, and believe me Kris, it  _will_  happen. Why hand the industry an easy excuse to fuck up my career, when it's not even who I  _am_  anymore?"

Kristov sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. "Sexual orientation is not something that just goes away, Jared. Science resolved that debate some time ago."

A heavy silence falls, during which Kristov gets up and gestures for my coffee cup and plate. I hand them over and he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me to my thoughts.

He's right. I know he's right. I've said as much to Lanie. Being bisexual is part of who I am. I'm no different now than I was when Kristov and I were together, nothing has changed, no magical switch was turned off. Last night proves that beyond any doubt. I have to admit it—my intense attraction to Kristov is as powerful now as it has ever been. So why am I sitting here trying to say different? Who am I trying to convince, Kristov or myself?

And  _why?_

I know why. Fucking right I know why, and it scares the hell out of me, almost as much as the idea of my true nature being revealed to the entire world.

Kristov returns to the table, but he doesn't sit. He comes around to my side and puts his hands on the back of the chair. "Will you please do one thing for me?"

I look up at him. "What?" I ask softly.

"Be honest with yourself." Kristov lifts one hand and tentatively, gently smooths my hair away from my face. I try but only partially succeed at suppressing a shiver at his touch, my thoughts whirling in confusion; a conflicted jumble of past and present.

"Living most of my life under an anti-gay Russian government, having Yuri Belneczek for a father, I understand your fear and worry. But for me, it wasn't just my career at stake. For most of my life I couldn't speak my truth, lest I face prison and the wrath of my father, behind whom was The Kremlin."

A flood of shame fills me at his quiet words. "God, Kris, I'm sorry," I whisper. "Of course, I remember. I remember how scared you were when we were caught in St. Petersburg and you got that call from your father ordering you back to Moscow."

Kristov's smile and his eyes are far away and reflective as he gazes down at me. "Yes, I was scared. I had no idea what was going to happen to me. But more than scared, there was so much anger in me, anger built from a lifetime of being forced to hide who I am. Grief at the realization that what we had and everything I hoped we could become was never to be. But we're in  _America_ now, Jared. You're free to live and speak your truth, and that's a priceless gift. Don't you see that?"

I'm silent at this. Kristov remains where he is, still looking down at me with his beautiful dark eyes. "You need to stop running from it, Jared. Not for me or for anyone else, but for you."

I still have no words. I tear my eyes away and look down, shame battling with pride battling with fear as well as a nagging sense of selfishness eating away inside me.

"If I were in your position, I'd be far more concerned about being labeled a rapist than a bisexual. I'm asking you, please, Jared—please focus on what's really important right now. And remember you have people who will stand by you no matter what." He strokes my hair again, whispering, "I'm one of them."

 

***

 

Later, Kristov and I are out on the deck, lounging on a pair of chaises and taking in the cool breeze while sipping iced tea and catching up on each other's lives. It's almost like it used to be between us—before we got sexually involved, before we fell in love. The easy banter and laughter is back, and I'm so happy about that I want to burst into an unmanly display of tears. I had no idea how much I've missed my friend until now.

I've heard back from Liz Moore, who is ecstatic that she's gotten the green light to incorporate Mars music in  _Devil's Playground._  Once that's out of the way, I do something I rarely do—I shut my phone off so I can truly enjoy the peaceful surroundings and Kristov's company. My hangover has blissfully gone back to a faraway drone and as the hours pass by, I begin to feel lighter, somehow.

With most of the heavy stuff left at the table, our conversation is all about my music, the few movies I've done in the last several years, and the unexpected success I've found as a tech investor. The darkness makes only a brief reappearance when I tell him about my escape to Oak Creek Canyon and how close I came to death if not for Lanie and Shelby finding me. In turn, Kristov tells me about his successful struggle to get out of the dark, drug-and-mindless sex-filled depression he'd found himself in when we ended our relationship. Admittedly with Ivan Valkov's assistance and his convenience marriage to Katia, his career got back on track. Now he's at his peak, with a number of lucrative campaigns that have taken him around the world.

"Though I'm not getting any younger," he laments. His eyes are on the beautiful view of the mountains some distance away, on the sun beginning to set behind them, painting everything in deep orange hues. "None of us can escape that, no matter what we try to do to prevent it. So right now I'm working as much as I can, for as long as I can."

"I hear you," I finish my iced tea and swirl the remaining cubes around in the glass. "I'll be forty-six in just a couple of weeks." I set the glass on the glass-top table between us. "And Christ, am I ever feeling it."

Kristov glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "Perhaps, but you're still the same to me." He reaches over and gives my beard a gentle tug. "Except this. When are you going to shave it?"

I shrug. "One of these days, maybe. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll keep letting it grow down to my belt, and let the gray come out with it." Kristov smirks at this, and I shrug. "Hey, you're the one who talked about how freeing it would be to just be myself, and I should quit hiding my true nature."

Kristov's hand slips over and covers mine, squeezing it gently. "Then by all means, do it," he says, smiling. He glances at my empty glass. "Refill?"

"Half," I answer, and hand it to him.

When Kristov returns with fresh iced tea, he picks up my hand again and studies it. "Callouses," he murmurs, touching the hardened pads of my fingertips. "You've been playing a lot lately."

"Yeah, I have been. We're trying to finish the new album on time."

"I've heard  _Walk on Water_. Quite a change from your earlier work," he comments. "I like it, though."

"Thanks." I pluck the slice of lemon from the rim of my glass and squeeze the juice into the tea.

"Will there be another single before the album's released?"

I gulp, and my hand shakes a little as I take a drink of tea. "Uh-huh," I answer noncommittally. "Called  _Dangerous Night._  It'll drop sometime in January, I think."

"You think?" Kristov looks at me. "I thought you were in total control of these things."

"I am, I just—this song is something a little different. No, it's a  _lot_  different. I want it to be perfect." Kristov has entwined his soft, smooth fingers around mine, and they're resting on the table between us. I study our joined hands, my heart pounding erratically.

"That's my Jared. Never satisfied. Ever the perfectionist." Kristov grins, and then he lifts my hand, giving it a soft kiss. He always used to have this way of looking at me with a sleepy-eyed, sidelong glance that was sexy as hell, and he's doing it again now. That, plus the tiny smile on his lips, and the warmth of his breath grazing my skin—all of it is hypnotic. I can't move. I can't think. I can't even breathe. 

The spell is broken when the patio door behind us is flung open and a sharp voice demands, "Kristov? What the  _fuck_  is going on and why the  _fuck_ is he still here?" 

 Kristov and I turn in unison,  yanking our hands apart but not quickly enough. I know Alex has seen everything. Kristov knows, too. His face is pale and stricken with guilt.

_Oh, this is bad. This is  really fucking bad. Shit, shit, shit._

Dark suspicion and open hostility flash in Alex's  narrowed, piercing eyes as they dart from me to Kristov. His jaw works and his nostrils flare. "Kris, I want to see you inside for a moment," he says.

Kristov's eyes meet mine, and there's something else in them besides guilt. Is it fear?

No. It's terror. 

"Excuse me." Kristov's voice is thin and barely above a whisper. He gets up and goes inside, Alex behind him. The patio door slams closed.

Almost immediately, voices echo through the glass door—distant, muffled, but they carry all the anger driving them. Then there's a thud, hard enough to vibrate the wooden deck.  _What the fuck was that?_  I wonder, guessing something heavy was either dropped or thrown.

Oh, fuck. I hate scenes like these. Witnessing them, overhearing them, and most of all, being the cause of them. Though I gather that I already have been the cause of conflict between Kristov and Alex well before this evening.

I need to leave. I don't look forward to going inside and interrupting their fight, but I need to get my phone, ask for my truck keys, and at least tell Kristov goodbye. The house falls silent, but I wait a few more minutes until I'm reasonably sure the fight is really over. Steeling myself, I get to my feet, my back giving a sharp twinge as I straighten myself.

Just as I move to step inside, the patio door opens again. Alex steps out, and he's alone. His cheeks are flushed, his jaw tight. I see the rigidity in his eyes and I stop, bracing myself for the barrage of abuse I'm sure is coming, ending with my being thrown out. All I can hope is that the guy isn't going to take a swing at me, but I'm prepared, just in case.

But Alex makes no move to strike me. He only offers that grim expression. His chin lifts and calmly he says, "So..." He nods at the patio door. "I understand Kristov took it upon himself to call our neighbors and inform them that you'll be joining us.  We're supposed to be there in ten minutes. This puts me in a very difficult spot. One I don't appreciate being in."

I take a deep breath.  "Yeah, he did invite me to come along, but look—I think it's better that I leave. It seems like I've caused you and Kris enough trouble."

Alex studies me, his eyes narrowing, lips thinning. "You certainly have. More than you probably realize. I was a fool last night. For listening to Kristov, for letting him talk me into looking for you, for bringing you back to my home.  _Christ."_  He glances over his shoulder into the house before crossing his arms and facing me again. "I'd like to ask you one simple question, and I'd appreciate an honest answer."

I rub my face, nonplussed. "What?"

"Are you still in love with my husband?"

My stomach clenches itself in a knot. My head begins to pound dully all over again, and I choose my words carefully, speaking slowly. "Before we were lovers, Kris and I were close friends. I'd like nothing better than to have that back."

"That doesn't answer my question." Alex's eyes don't waver from mine. They're probing, searching. They're the eyes of an experienced interrogator who knows how to discern truth from lies, and they radiate his intense, tangible dislike of me. "I asked you if you're still in love with him. Yes, or no?"

I lift my chin and shove my hands in my pockets, where they tighten into fists. I keep my eyes on the man in front of me, steady and unblinking. My voice is calm, even, and without inflection. "I want Kristov back in my life. Make of that what you will."

 

***

 

When Kristov described Chris Pine and his wife Emily as laid back, I visualized them as perhaps a bit chill, without a whole lot of airs and attitude, but with the celeb vibe nonetheless. Something like George and Amal, or Kurt and Goldie.

Not even close. These two are almost the antithesis of a Hollywood couple, and from the moment we arrive at the front door of their ranch style home that's nearly swallowed up in vines climbing over the whole front of the place, it's a struggle to remember that Chris Pine is an actor of extremely high caliber.

I've seen his films, and met him at the Oscars a few years ago, but we've never really socialized before. Seeing him in a faded blue t-shirt, ripped jeans, flip-flops and holding a bottle of beer in one hand and the collar of a wriggling black-and-white pitbull mix in the other, I can't help but smile with undisguised amusement. I like him already.

"Hey, guys!" he greets us at the door, trying to hold onto the dog and not spill his beer. "Come on in, the party's out back. Wednesday,  come on, girl. Sit!"

Wednesday obeys immediately, a grin on her face, tail whipping back and forth. Chris looks up and grins at me. "Hi, Jared. Chris Pine." He looks down at the dog. "Stay." He releases the collar and puts out his hand. Remarkably, Wednesday stays put.

"Hey, Chris. It's been awhile. Nice to meet you again," I say, shaking his hand. "Thanks for letting me crash the party."

"Oh, no, I'm stoked to have you over! Besides, any friend of Kristov and Alex is a friend of mine." Chris turns to them, shaking first Kristov's and then Alex's hand. "Glad you could come. I wasn't sure if you'd be able to, Alex."

"Court wrapped up early for a change," Alex replies. He shoots me an unreadable look before turning his attention back to our host. "So, where's Emily? Did you put her on grill duty?"

"Are you kidding?" Chris laughs. "Nah, she's fussing over the baby. C'mon out to the patio."

We follow him through the living room, and I look around as we go. The interior of the house is warm and inviting, with gleaming hardwood floors, colorful rugs, and dozens of framed photographs and paintings adorning every wall. The style of furnishings and color scheme has a very familiar vibe and flow. "Flora DuSchene was your decorator, right?" I ask.

Chris throws me a surprised look. "Yeah, actually, she was. You know her work? I had the chance to work with her on  _Horrible Bosses 2._ Loved her flair for design. So when the girls moved in, I asked for her help to make this house more  _us._ She was our first choice, since she had worked with us before, on our other house in Ohio."

I grin. "She's a friend of mine and she's done some work at my place, too." I look around some more. "This place is incredible," I murmur to Kristov. "Check out all the artwork and photography."

"Yes, it's very nice," he replies.

Something in Kristov's tone makes me glance at him as we cross the dining room, walking toward a wall of glass that's been opened to the patio beyond it. I catch a whiff of cooking food and the sound of laughter carried in on the evening breeze. "Are you okay?" I murmur under my breath.

Kristov nods, but there's an odd, somehow distant but pained look in his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" He gives me a ghost of a smile.

"Ems!" Chris calls out to the patio. "Guess who's here!"

Nobody has to guess, though, because seconds later we step outside, where I immediately spot two familiar faces.

"Ben Foster!" I greet the blonde man who gets to his feet with a smile. I grin at him. "It's good to see you."

We shake and Ben's smile widens. "Jared. Jesus, it's been awhile, hasn't it? How've you been?" Without waiting for an answer, he gestures at the pretty brunette at the table beside him. "You know Laura Prepon?"

"Yeah, I believe we've met," I answer. "And I hear congratulations are in order."

"Thanks," Laura smiles at Ben and looks back at me. "A couple of friends and I caught your concert at the Hollywood Bowl this past summer. I was as big as a house, but I wasn't going to miss it. I love your music."

"Thanks," I smile back. "It was a great show."

"Where'd Ems go?" Chris asks Laura, while Alex and Kristov greet Ben.

"She ran off with Marley Grace about ten minutes ago," Laura answers. "Don't tell me you're surprised. I'm shocked you even had to ask."

"Well shit, we may never see them again," Chris laments with a dramatic sigh. "Guess that puts me on dish detail. Thanks a lot." He looks around at us. "Beer, anyone?" He goes toward the house. "Kristov, Alex, Jared?"

"I'll have one," Kristov says, and I turn to him, surprised.

"You drink beer?" I whisper.

"I do tonight," he answers shortly.

"Jared? Alex?" Chris asks again.

"Just water for me," I reply, sinking into one of the chairs. Just the thought of alcohol makes me queasy.

"Do you have anything stronger?" Alex asks.

"Scotch?"

"Perfect." Alex sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. Kristov does the same, winces and then lets out a soft breath as he sits up straight again. I'm reminded of the times when my back's giving me hell and sitting ramrod straight is the only relief I can get.

But before I can ask him what's wrong, a female voice, flavored with a hint of Texas twang calls out, "Hey y'all! Sorry to take so long, but Miss Marley gave me a two-for-one special."

  Laura laughs. "I could've told you she'd do that."  

Emily Pine is very pretty, with cascades of dark hair, wide-spaced blue eyes perhaps a shade darker than my own, and a creamy, flawless complexion. Dressed in a white, off-shoulder peasant blouse and long blue skirt made of some kind of gauzy material, her feet bare, she's the epitome of 'laid back'. I like her immediately.

"Hi, Emily," Kristov greets her as she hands the baby, a bit reluctantly, to Laura.

"Kristov," she replies cheerily, bending to give him a peck on the cheek. "I'm so glad you could come!"

"Hello, Emily," Alex says.

Emily's eyes dart to him, and her open and friendly face clouds over just the slightest bit; so slight I might be imagining it. "Hello, Alex," she greets him in return. There's a hint of stiffness in her voice.

Chris returns with the drinks on a tray. I crack open my water and drink, settling into conversation easily with everyone. Though I don't want to spend the evening talking shop, it's inevitable when you get two or more actors together. While we converse, Chris mans the grill, nodding at me when I inform him that I'm a vegan.

"Kristov mentioned that when he called. I got you covered," he grins. "Sent Ems to the store earlier. She came back with these godawful-sounding kale burgers. You actually  _eat_  those things? On  _purpose?"_

"Hey, Pine, you might want to give them a try." Emily goes over to Chris and pats his stomach. "A little healthy eating wouldn't do you any harm, especially after the way you overdosed on haggis in Scotland last month."

"That armor was fucking heavy. I had to reload on calories somehow, sweetheart." Everyone laughs at this, and Chris smirks down at her again. "Besides, I didn't hear any complaints from you about the food, either." He takes a healthy swig of his beer and swats Emily on the ass before bending a little to give her a kiss. Beside me, Alex and Kristov exchange a knowing smile. Alex takes Kristov's hand and pulls it into his lap, their fingers entwined. I relax a little at the sight—whatever happened earlier between them, they've apparently kissed and made up.

"So, Jared, what have you got in the pipeline these days?" Ben wants to know. "I'm hearing rumors of a pretty big tour with the band. Taking a break from acting?"

I take a swallow of water. "Not really. I have a film I'm shooting shortly after the end of the tour. It's in pre-production now, just getting all the loose ends tied up."

"Yeah? Who's directing?" Chris asks, expertly flipping the burgers.

"Cassandra Rush."

"Really?" Laura says. "I love her work. She always does strong female-driven movies. What's the film about?"

"It's a crime thriller set in San Francisco. Female lead is a police detective trying to track a serial killer." I pause. "That would be me."

Laura and Ben's eyebrows shoot up in unison. "Wow. So you're the bad guy. How do you like playing the antagonist?" Ben asks. "You've done a few of them."

I chuckle. "Yeah, I enjoy it a lot, actually. Especially playing a guy as fucked up as this one is. He's got the quiet mannerisms of Niander Wallace with the psychotic mind of The Joker."

"Sounds fascinating," Emily says. "I've seen your work, and I have no doubt you'll be great in the role."

"Thanks." I smile. "I just hope it gets off the ground. This project has been in development for a long time, and it's finally looking like it'll go, but there's never a sure thing in this business. Right, Chris?"

"Amen to that," Chris raises his beer bottle and takes a swig. "So, guys, it looks like the cow's dead. Who's hungry?"

It's odd for me, eating at a table full of carnivores. Between the sight and the smell, I generally avoid it, but with this group, I find it doesn't bother me so much. I wolf down two kale burgers and a slice of juicy watermelon, laughing at Chris trying to sneak table scraps to Wednesday without Emily noticing. She catches him repeatedly, swatting the back of his head and letting him know he's on poop-scoop detail for the next couple of days.

It's a dinner full of lively conversation and laughter. I'm enjoying myself a great deal, except the nagging feeling in my head that something's bothering Kristov, something he's trying desperately to hide. Alex is animated and chatty, especially after a couple of drinks, bearing no resemblance to the cold man who confronted me on his deck just a short time ago. But Kristov is quiet and somewhat withdrawn, not eating much and drinking only the one beer before switching to water.

"So, Jared, how did you meet Kristov and Alex?" Emily asks suddenly.

I instantly sense tension in Kristov, and on the other side of him, Alex shoots me a hard glance, looking again like he did earlier in the evening. "Um, I've actually known Kristov for several years. We met in Russia when I was on tour there, and became friends." I glance at Kristov and for a brief second our eyes meet, his expression carefully neutral. "We had a lot in common. Fashion, music, and art especially." I smile, and Kristov smiles back.

"Aw, sounds like a sweet bromance," Laura coos. She's feeding Marley, and she sets the bottle on the table and lifts the infant to her shoulder, patting her back gently.  "Like Chris and Ben." She grins at Alex. "Watch out, Alex. Like I tell Emily, one of these days they might run off together."

Alex makes a sound in his throat and finishes off his scotch in a single swallow, setting the glass firmly down on the table.  It seems like everyone picks up on the sudden stiffness between the three of us because a weighted silence falls, broken only by Marley making soft baby noises. It's only for a few seconds, but it seems to drag out forever.

Alex is the one to finally break it. "I hate to eat and run," he says. "But I have to be in court first thing in the morning." His eyes shift to Kristov. "Ready to go?"

Kristov holds his husband's gaze. "I'd like to stay a little longer, if that's okay with you." He shifts in his chair, lifting his chin slightly. I've seen that look in him before. It's his defensive posture.

Alex's jaw works. He seems to carefully consider several replies, glancing around at the rest of us before giving Kristov a short nod. "Sure, no problem," he says as he gets to his feet.

"I'll walk you out," Chris offers. There's a hint of puzzlement in his eyes, and beside him, Emily's look matches his, but hers is amplified to clear concern.

"Okay." Alex's light tone sounds forced. "Well, goodnight, everyone." With a wave, he turns and heads into the house with Chris.

 

A little while later, Chris lights a fire in the patio fireplace, and we move the chairs closer to it. Ben takes the baby from Laura when she begins to fuss, rocking her gently, humming and speaking to her in a low, soothing voice. Furtively, I watch him, and then I watch the way Chris and Emily interact; they're like two halves of a whole, incredibly in tune with one another. He sits down on a nearby lounger and pulls Emily next to him, tucking her into his side. The positive vibes they give off are felt even where I'm sitting, several feet away.  

Kristov is next to me, almost close enough to touch. My heart races at the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. His jet hair reflects deep red hues, and his skin glows in warm amber. He's so breathtaking right now that it takes a mighty effort not to openly stare at him. I focus instead on the merrily burning fire, at drinking my water to soothe the dryness in my mouth, and on the conversation which drifts back to my upcoming film.

"Who else has been cast?" Chris asks me.

"Officially? I'm the first. Katia Valkov wants the role of Diana, and it looks like she's gonna get it, God help us all."

Kristov, who's relaxed visibly since Alex left,  shoots me an amused look, which I return with one of my own. Then for the first time tonight, he displays humor—laughter which he tries but fails to conceal.  It's infectious, and I join him.

Chris's eyes dart to Kristov and back to me. "Okay, what's the joke? Who is she?" he asks.

"Exactly," Kristov says, still laughing. "Who is she indeed?"

"A model who wants to break into film," I answer.

"Oh, God," Ben groans and rolls his eyes.

"Far be it for me to get catty," Emily muses, leaning forward to move the burning logs around, "but when I got that spot on  _NCIS: L.A_., there were a couple of model-types in the cattle call. One was kind of nice, but the other, Jesus Christ! The attitude was something else. And absolutely no talent. I think maybe she got out about three words and the casting director stopped the audition and sent her packing, and she was so pissed she started yelling at him in some foreign language."  She sets the fireplace poker back in its stand. "What's crazy about it is, I could  _swear_  her name was something like Katia." 

"Sure sounds like her," I mutter, and Kristov snickers again. "You got the part, Emily?"

"You bet your ass she did." Chris grins proudly and wraps his arm around Emily, drawing her closer to his side. "My wife is an amazing actress. She nailed it. No one else could've done what she did with that role."

Emily laughs. "You're biased, Pine. I just did what the director told me to do, and that's it."

"Whatever. I happen to know better. Just remember, I saw you in action." Chris grins down at her and pecks her softly on the lips.

 

Ben and Laura leave once the baby drifts off. "She'll be up at five in the morning, right on schedule," Laura laments. She wraps a blanket around Marley as Ben gathers their things. "So we better call it a night."

Ben comes over to me and I stand. "It was really good seeing you, Jared. We'll have to get together again sometime." He gives me a quick hug.

"I'd like that," I reply as I draw back. Looking at Ben, I am suddenly struck with a vision of him in the role of Diana's detective partner, Joe. He'd be perfect for the part. I'd just hate to saddle a good guy like him with the inenviable job of working with Katia. Better that than the role of Connor, Diana's love interest, though. I don't envy any actor the task.

Shortly after Ben and Laura are gone, I ask for directions to the bathroom. As I wash my hands, I glance up in the mirror as a troubling thought strikes me—I've barely thought of Lanie all evening. But then, I guess it's understandable, as wrapped up in shop-talk and reconnecting with Kristov as I've been.

As I make my way back toward the patio, I pause in the living room, studying the artwork and many framed photographs covering almost every available space. They're beautifully done. The photo subjects run the gamut—black and white architecture, old abandoned buildings, landscape shots from many different parts of the world, close-ups of everything from a dandelion to a bent paper clip on a piece of black foam rubber. Another one, featuring a  rusty padlock on an even rustier wrought-iron gate, holds my attention for a long moment before I move on to a vast collection of family photographs. Several of them are pictures of Emily and a dark-haired little girl. That must be their daughter Mac, who I've heard a lot about. 

Chris's voice breaks the silence in the room. "What do you think?"

"This is some excellent work." I point to the paper clip photo. "I mean, who'd even think to photograph that, you know? But looking at it, who  _wouldn't_  think to photograph it?"

"Exactly," Chris nods. "With your eye for it, I guess you must have the hobby yourself."

I nod. "Yeah, I do. If I hadn't gotten into film, I'd have been a visual artist. That's what I started out doing. I went to art school, and switched to film." My eyes drift over the photos, and then one in particular stops me. "Wow," I murmur, stepping closer to it. "That's Emily, isn't it?"

Chris follows my gaze and a smile crosses his lips. "Yeah. That was taken on our honeymoon."

I study the picture. Emily is laying on a bed, facing away from the camera, her bare back visible below her long, dark hair. A sheet is drawn up, just barely over her hips. I study it, admiring everything about it. "Your use of light here is incredible. Truly beautiful."

"Thanks. That's one of my favorites, too," Chris says proudly.

"This is Mac?" I indicate another of the photos, one of Emily and Mac sitting astride a beautiful black horse, Mac in front of Emily. They're dressed in western attire and beaming at the camera. Behind them is vast, open prairie that meets the sky. 

"That's Mac, yep. She's spending a few days with my sister."

I nod. "What a gorgeous horse that is, too. Where was this taken?"

"We have a ranch about an hour outside Ft. Worth, Texas," Chris says. "It's been in Emily's family for generations.Whenever we have downtime or we just want to get away from L.A., we fly out there and disappear."

I look at the picture again, imagining the sound of the wind whispering through the tall grass, ruffling my hair, sweeping away every care. "Sounds wonderful," I murmur, thinking of my own escape destination in Arizona. "I know all about wanting to disappear sometimes."

"Yeah, it's great. Even before it was handed over to Emily, I'd fallen in love with the place." He clears his throat. "So, listen, Jared. I wanted to ask you something. About this upcoming film."

I turn to him. "Yeah? What about it?"

"You said they're still in the process of casting, and I was wondering if I could take a look at it."

"Which role?"

"The male lead."

I can't conceal my surprise. My eyes widen. "You'd be interested in a part like that? It's not like anything you've done before."

"All the more reason I'm interested," Chris says. "The film sounds fascinating, and with Liz Moore producing and Cassandra Rush directing? Both very strong, tough women. Hell yeah, I'm interested."

I try to picture Chris Pine and Katia Valkov in some of the steamier scenes, and simply cannot do it. Christ! Chris is a damn good actor, but I'm not sure even he could pull that off. I'm not convinced  _anyone_  can.

I swallow my misgivings and ask, "You're with CAA too, right?"

"Yeah, I am. Kevin Huvane and Bryan Lourd. You?"

"Josh Lieberman." I smile. "Okay. If you're really interested, I'll see what I can do. You can read the script and see if this is something you really want to take on. If it is, I'd love to work with you."

"Likewise," Chris says. "Ready?" He nods his head toward the patio.

"Sure," I answer. But before leaving the room, I take one last look at the black-and-white picture of Emily on the bed.

 _Goddammit_. If only Katia hadn't already weaseled her way into the role of Diana...

 

***

 

It's after ten P.M. when Kristov and I leave, and as we say our goodbyes, Chris suggests we get together again soon. "Bring a date next time," Emily adds with a wink.

Lanie crosses my mind again. I know she would definitely enjoy spending time with these two, and it's with that thought in mind that I assure them that we'll set up something soon.

Kristov falls back into silence as we walk the short distance back to his house. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his expression unreadable in the darkness.

"I had a good time," I offer. "Thanks for letting me tag along."

Kristov glances over at me. "I'm glad you did." He says nothing further. Silence envelops us again, and for a few minutes there's only the sound of our footsteps, a whisper of wind rustling through the trees, and the incessant chirp of crickets.

There are a million things I want to say to him, things not yet spoken despite the hours we've just spent together. Now that I'm about to leave, I find myself unable to coalesce all of it into a few words. I only know I'm so fucking happy to have Kristov back in my life that I'm on the verge of tears. So perhaps it's best to leave those words unspoken, and just feel what I feel.

We reach his house, my truck sitting to one side in the driveway. Kristov stops next to the driver's side door. He looks down and shuffles his feet, hands still stuffed in his pockets. He glances at the house. It's dark inside. "I—I'll go get your keys," Kristov finally says. "I won't be but a moment. I'm sure Alex is asleep by now." Without waiting for a response, he walks to the front steps and climbs them. I hear the soft jangling of his keys before he opens the front door and steps inside.

While I wait, I lean against my truck, gazing up at the clear, starlit sky. There's no moon tonight, and up here in Los Feliz, a bit of distance from most of Los Angeles' city lights below, the heavens shine brilliantly unimpeded, much like they do in Oak Creek Canyon.

I hear the front door shut and watch as Kristov walks back to me, my keys in his hand. His eyes are downcast as he hands them to me.

"Thanks for everything," I say. "Not just for last night, but for today, too."

Kristov looks up then, and once more I'm captivated by the way every emotion reads so clearly in his face, in his dark eyes. "Jared—" he begins. His voice sounds strangled. "I'm glad we had this chance to reconnect. I've missed you, more than you can possibly imagine."

"Same here," I say softly. "Hanging out on your deck, drinking iced tea and talking, it was almost like time stopped."

"It did feel that way, didn't it?" Kristov blinks rapidly, sucking in his lower lip. "Yes, today was wonderful." His voice drops to a near-whisper. "But it can never happen again."

A sudden coldness passes through me, at his words, at the tightness and resolve in his face and voice. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" his throat works— "It's best that I don't see you again." He looks away. 

"Why?" I point at the house. "Because of Alex and his insecurity? My God, Kris, does he dictate to you who your friends are?"

Kristov lets out a harsh sound. "Friends? Jared, we were  _lovers._   You saw  for yourself that it upset him."

I grip the keys so tightly in my hand I wonder if they're drawing blood. "Kristov, what the fuck is going on with you? The man I knew eight years ago was  _never_  this passive."

Kristov nods. "You're right. That man wasn't passive. That man was an overbearing bastard. He was controlling and demanding, he made you miserable and he drove you away. That man no longer exists, Jared."  He lifts his face, staring down at me steadily. "Alex may be short-tempered, he may be insecure and he may lash out, but he loves me despite my own many failings."

I shake my head slowly. "So, this is it. I leave here and we just go on our merry way? That's not going to happen, Kris." I step closer. "Making you a footnote in the story of my life is  _not_  going to happen." I hesitate, and then forge on, my voice low, "Especially not when I can see with my own two eyes what's going on here."

The defensive posture is back. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Kristov says. But his eyes tell me he knows perfectly well.

"Then maybe I'm wrong," I shrug. "Fair enough. But can I at least get a hug before I drive out of your life again?" I open my arms, my keys dangling from my index finger. Kristov doesn't move toward me, instead casting a wary glance at the dark and silent house.

I sigh. "Come here, for Christ's sake. I'm about to leave. Alex can't begrudge you a fucking hug before I go, can he? And anyway, you said he's sleeping."

Kristov takes two hesitant steps toward me, closing the gap between us. His arms pull me close. I wrap my arms around him, breathing in his scent, absorbing his warmth and closeness, just holding him, relishing the moment. Kristov buries his face in my hair and lets out a long, quivering breath. He's trembling, and so am I.

And then, very deliberately, I pat him on his left shoulder.

Instantly he flinches, sucking in his breath with a sharp hiss as he jerks out of my arms. He stares at me, anger and fear combining in a grimace before he looks away. His chest rises and falls with erratic and ragged breaths, almost as if he's trying to decide whether to break down crying or scream at me. At the moment I'm not sure which one I'd prefer. 

He does neither. Instead, he stares blankly at his feet, silent but for his harsh breathing, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his pockets. His hair hangs over his face in a long black curtain, shutting me out.

"So." I make a valiant effort to control the groundswell of fury boiling up inside me, making me want to cry, to scream, to charge into the house and tear its sleeping occupant limb from limb. I can't control the trembling in my voice, though. "I guess I'm not wrong, after all."

Kristov takes another step away from me. "Please, Jared. It's not what you think."

"Really?" I take a compensating step toward him. "I think it is. He hurt you. Today, when you were fighting. Right?"

"No, you're wrong—it was an accident!" Kristov's voice is high and desperate, and I can see right through it. He's terrified and he's defensive, but most of all, he's ashamed. "Alex wouldn't hurt me on purpose. You have to believe me."

"No, actually I don't." I gesture at him. "Let me see."

Kristov's eyes widen. "It's nothing, just a little sore, maybe there's a bruise. I just lost my balance and fell against the bedroom door frame—" at my rigid, unmoving expression, he cries, "It was a fucking  _accident!"_

"Then let me see it." My voice is low and even. "Turn around, and show me, Kris. Now."

He shakes his head. "Jared, please don't—"

I reach out and take his arm in a firm grip.  _"Now,_ Kris."

For several seconds we stand there, facing one another. My gaze doesn't waver, nor does his. Then with an exasperated sound, Kristov throws my hand off. Through clenched teeth, he rasps, "If I do, will you back off and let it go?"

"Probably not," I answer. "Show me."

Kristov glares at me for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, unbuttons his denim shirt, slides it over his shoulders, and slowly turns around.

I've pulled out my phone for light, but I don't need it. There's a vicious diagonal mark across Kristov's left shoulder blade, about three inches wide and extending from near the point of his shoulder almost to his spine. I stare at it, stunned, and can only whisper a weak, "Holy shit."

"Are you satisfied?" Kristov yanks his shirt back on. He turns around and his eyes are damp, but they now refuse to meet mine. "If you care about me at all, Jared, you'll forget you ever saw that." His breathing catches in little bursts and gasps, like his lungs are squeezing all the air out of them. "Please, Jared— j-just go, and don't try to see me or contact me again. It's better this way for all of us."

I take his arm again, and immediately he wrenches away. "I'm supposed to leave here, forget I saw that, and never see you again? Are you fucking  _kidding_  me?" My voice is still trembling. "Jesus fucking Christ, Kris, you need to take your own advice and be honest with yourself! You can't let him abuse you like this! You need to  _leave_ him! "

Kristov scoffs gently, almost like a laugh, and runs his tongue over his front teeth. "If it makes you feel better,  just think of it as karma." He reaches out and strokes my face, bending to lay a gentle kiss on my cheek. "Now, go, Jared. Live your life, and be happy. That's all I've ever wanted for you." He steps away, turns, and walks toward the house.

"Kris—" my breath is ragged, struggling past the rock lodged in my throat. "Kris, wait—"

But Kristov doesn't turn around. He takes the steps to the front door two at a time, opens the door, and goes inside without once looking back.


	11. Lanie

"So..." I say quietly, meeting Jared's eyes across the breakfast table, his granola largely uneaten and mine a tasteless sludge in my bowl. "I guess we need to talk, huh?"

"Yes, I think we do," Jared replies. The words are clipped and cold, as if  _I've_  done something wrong. As if  _I'm_  the one who disappeared for over twenty-four hours without an explanation. He's pissed, no doubt about that. His demeanor—from the narrowed eyes, the tightness in his mouth, the way his hands are doubled up in fists and rested on either side of his ignored breakfast—all of it screams anger. And yet, I don't get the impression that all of it is directly aimed at me.

Not the way mine's directly aimed at him, anyway.

I take a deep breath. "Then I guess I'll start with the obvious. Where the fuck were you?"

"With a friend," Jared answers. "And before you ask? No. I didn't fuck around on you."

"I wasn't going to ask," I say truthfully. "Right now I think why you took off in the first place is more important than where you were, what you were doing and with whom."

Jared's voice is tense, his eyes never breaking contact with mine as he says, "The minute I got in the door after spending hours dealing with Katia fucking Valkov and the fucking paparazzi, you hit me with that website. Despite how many times you've been told about this tabloid shit—by me, by Flora, by Magda—your first reaction was, you believed it." He pauses and lets out a harsh breath. "And what did I say from the beginning? Before you believe anything you read online,  _ask_  me." He scoffs again. "But you didn't, Lanie. You  _didn't_  ask me. You read that garbage and you cannot deny that your first reaction was belief. I could  _see_  it in you. How do you think that made me feel?"

I swallow hard as my defenses burn hot and wild, driving my words and my anger. "How do you think it made  _me_  feel, Jared?" I demand. "How do you think  _any_  of this makes me feel?" My voice rises despite my efforts to remain calm, but it's like something's taking over inside me, something I have to release or it'll eat me alive. Thank God Shelby's at school, because once I get started my words tumble forth—fierce and rising in volume. I'm seldom one to lose control and yell, but there's an undeniable relief in letting it all out.

And so I get to my feet, staring down at my husband. "It's easy for you to tell me this is all part of the business, but I'm  _not_  part of the business, Jared, and I'm sick and tired of  _all_  of it! Of our every move being dictated by people who have no right dictating  _anything._  Of people just saying whatever ugly lies and hurtful things they want to without any repercussions. Of sitting by silently while you pretend to have a relationship with that bitch." I take a deep, shaking breath, forcing my voice to lower. "According to the world, Katia Valkov is the woman you love, and me? Your  _wife?"_  I gesture at myself. "Nobody knows who I am." I let out a self-deprecating laugh, slapping my forehead. "Oh, wait—what am I saying? Yeah, they know who I am. I'm  _'PoolGirl'_."

Jared closes his eyes and rests his forehead on one hand. "Lanie—"

"Don't say it, Jared. Don't you condescend to me and tell me again that I knew what I was getting into." I snatch up our cereal bowls and stomp into the kitchen, depositing them with a loud clatter in the sink. It's a wonder they don't break.

"Lanie," Jared speaks behind me. "That isn't what I was going to say."

I turn. He's right behind me, his eyes dark and hooded. With a grimace, he says, "What I was going to say is, the world might not know, but Katia knows  _exactly_  who you are."

My heart leaps into my throat at the tension in his eyes, his voice. His words strike me hard and fast, like a cold dash of water in the face. "What?" I whisper, all heated aggression gone. In its place a sick feeling forms; growing, spreading.

Jared nods. "Your name, date and place of birth, your parents' names, Shelby's, Todd's, that you took Shelby from Todd's custody and left the state—she knows  _everything."_

 

***

 

"Oh, my God," I murmur for at least the hundredth time. I'm back at the table, slumped over it, staring at the surface unseeingly. "How? How could she know all of this?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

I look up at Jared. "Todd?"

Jared shakes his head. "I already checked with the L.A. County authorities," he says."Pulled some strings and got some info. When he was in their custody, his communications were strictly monitored because of his connections with militia and anti-government groups. There was nothing, and he just got transferred to Minnesota."

"Then I don't know," I speak through clenched teeth. "I've never said a word to anyone other than you and—and Flora."

 _"Flora?"_  Jared exclaims. "That's ridiculous. That's  _insane,_  Lanie. Flora never would have gone to Katia and told her anything about you. In the first place, she detests Katia, and in the second place, how could you accuse someone who's been nothing but a good friend to both of us?"

 _She's not my friend anymore._ "I didn't say she did, Jared. I'm saying she's the only one here who knows everything about me!"I bury my face in my hands.  _"Fuck!_ "

"It was someone here in L.A," Jared says tersely, his voice rising. "Someone besides Flora who knows the Valkov's, and who knows enough to get all this information about you.  _Think,_  Lanie!"

"I  _can't_  think!" I yell. "There is nobody else here besides Flora who would know all these details, Jared!" I bunch my hands into tight fists. "God, I don't think Flora even knows as much as Katia does now!" My mind is racing, and once again the words just pour out of me."It's like someone came in here and went through my fucking pack or something—" my voice cuts off abruptly as I lower my hands and stare at Jared. That sick cold feeling envelops me again, even stronger this time. "Oh. Oh, shit," I whisper.

Jared's eyes are wide as he stares back at me. "What is it?"

I swallow hard. "Ella."

Jared's eyebrows shoot upward.  _"Ella?_  The weekend housekeeper? Ana's sister?"

I nod. "I found her in our bedroom the first Saturday you were in Europe."

"The housekeepers aren't supposed to go in our bedroom," Jared says slowly, frowning. "I thought you'd told her that."

"I did tell her, and so did Ana and Carmen. But I walked in and there she was. She was changing the sheets on the bed." I take a quivering breath. "My pack with all my documents in it was right there in the corner of the room."

Jared paces the room as I tell him this, and he gestures vaguely. "That makes even less sense. How would  _Ella_  know the Valkovs?"

"I don't know, but she quit right after that," I point out. "Doesn't that seem a little suspicious to you?"

Jared stops. "She quit?"

I nod. "I told you that, didn't I?"

He frowns. "No, this is the first I'm hearing about it."

I'm absolutely positive I told him, but I don't press it. "Ana has no idea why she quit, but she did, and she moved out of their apartment. You haven't noticed she hasn't been here since you got back?"

"Why would I notice? I've been busy," he snaps as he resumes pacing. "This doesn't answer the question about how she's connected in any way with Katia, though."

I sigh. "I have no idea."

Jared throws me a look. Running the fingers of both hands through his hair, he says, "I'm fucked, Lanie. And so are you, if I rock the boat. Even if I decide to announce to the world that I had a sexual relationship with Kristov Belneczek, the Valkovs still have me pinned." His voice is bitter. "Because now it's you and Shelby I'd be protecting instead of myself."

I watch Jared closely, every emotion as they cross his face, his restless prowling around the room. "You were going to do that?" I ask quietly.

Jared sighs, and then he laughs bitterly. "Not that it'll do any good now."

"Jared—"

"Shit like this—"he laughs again— "it's really poetic. Story of my fucking life, really. Just when I think things are finally falling into place, difficult decisions made, commitments I make, whatever—something always happens to throw a wrench into shit and fuck everything up. Over and over, and here I am again." He stops his frenetic pacing and places his hands flat on the table between us. He closes his eyes, lets out a long breath, and says softly, "Why didn't you lock all those documents in a safety deposit box like I suggested when you first moved in?"

"Because I didn't see any reason to," I answer stonily. "Like I told you then—I have to have my stuff where I can get at it in case I need it while you're out of town or something."

I expect further argument with Jared, but it doesn't come. Instead, his shoulders slump and he looks down at the table for a moment. His shoulders heave up and down. Then he looks up and says, "Well, I'm going to get to work. I have some phone calls to return that can't wait."

I know the end of a discussion when I hear it. "All right," I say quietly.

But Jared follows me back to the kitchen, apparently not finished talking after all. "Something I was going to ask you," he says in a tone that's both slightly conciliatory and cautious. "I was wondering if you'd want to go with me to help pick out a Christmas gift for my mom."

I continue to wipe down the countertop, knowing this is a peacemaking effort, and a very big one. Under the circumstances and the Valkov's thumbs, Christmas shopping with Jared is something I scarcely imagined he'd agree to do with me, much less suggest it himself. A normal couple thing. A very normal couple thing. I feel my lips tug themselves into a smile even before I turn around. "When?"

Jared pulls out his phone and looks at it for a minute, his expression thoughtful. "Saturday, mid-afternoon? We can take Shelby and make a day of it."

"That's deep-cleaning day," I remind him. "I need to be here from nine until four-thirty."

"Oh, yeah." He looks at his phone again. "It looks like I've got a block of time open Sunday afternoon. Will that work?"

"I think so."

Jared nods. "Okay, Sunday afternoon then. I'll have Jimmy take us."

 

***

 

Over the next few days it doesn't escape my notice that Jared is preoccupied. Even during our spat the morning after he returned from God knows where, I can tell he isn't fully engaging. For one thing, he doesn't stick around and talk things out, clear the air and make sure everything is okay before going off to make his phone calls. He invites me and Shelby Christmas shopping instead, which in his mind maybe is the same thing.

And long after the time passes that would've required those calls, he stays away. He doesn't give me an update on anything he'd talked about or with whom, even though ostensibly I had to have been the topic of at least one discussion.

Instead, Jared cloisters himself in the studio for the remainder of that day. I find that out for myself by actually going and looking for him at dinnertime when he doesn't appear on his own. Through the window inset in the studio door, I watch as Jared, his back to me, fiddles around with something on the computer. He has his headphones on so I can't hear what he is doing. After a moment's hesitation I try the door and find it locked.

Okay, then. Knowing not to bother him, I leave the studio and go back upstairs, feed Shelby, and watch TV with her for a while. Then I go downstairs again. Jared's still in the studio, the door locked, still sitting at the computer with his headphones on. It's like he's barely moved for hours. I leave again, go to the gym to work out, shower, and go to bed. I'm asleep before he finally joins me.

This routine repeats itself the next day, and the one after that.

Jared seems fine on the surface, if no arguing could be considered 'fine'. He even kisses me each morning and gives me a warm smile. But the rest of the time, he more or less checks out. Busy, always on the phone or on his laptop. Visitors come to the compound, as does Stevie and Tomo and then the three of them vanish into the studio. They come out for meals, and vanish again.

Friday comes, and I force myself to stay up until Jared comes to bed a little after two in the morning. He closes the door softly, heads for the bathroom, and stops, looking over at me. "Oh, hey. You're still up."

I prop myself up on one elbow. "Seemed to be the only way I could get any time with my husband."

Jared rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah. We've been tearing a couple of songs apart and rebuilding them." He glances into the bathroom and back at me. "The guys left, and so I came up to get a quick shower before I get back in there." He plucks at his shirt and makes a face. "It gets hot and stuffy in the studio after awhile."

"Don't."

He tilts his head at me. "Don't what?"

"It's two in the morning. Just shower and come to bed," I say, patting his side. "The music can wait."

Jared passes a hand over his face. "There's a lot left to do, and one of the songs we tore apart is the single that's due in a month. In between tour prep and everything else we have to do, I'm on a time crunch, so I really should—"

"Please," I implore. "We haven't had any time together all week."

The closest word I have to describe Jared's expression as I say this is  _pained._  He looks  _pained._  Why he would be, I don't know. Because he's gone back into that place where he has tunnel vision on work, on creating, and so he blocks everything and everyone out? Or is it because I'm trying to tear him away from his work headspace? All I know is I'm lying on the bed giving a seductive invitation that a blind man couldn't miss, he's looking directly into my eyes, and for the first time in our relationship I don't see desire hiding in there.

"Jared—"

"Okay," he finally says, but without much enthusiasm. "Let me get a shower first."

"I'll wash your back," I call after him as he goes into the bathroom.

When he doesn't answer, I roll off my elbow, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the sensation of my stomach slowly twisting into a knot, and instead I rationalize his very out-of-character disinterest.  _He's a workaholic, but he's not a machine. The man is stressed, and he's exhausted. It's written all over him, so give him a break._

Yeah, and I haven't exactly helped matters lately, have I? Why didn't I lock up my identifying documents as Jared suggested? My reasons made sense at the time, but now that the worst has happened, I realize how stupid I was not to listen to him. And how did Ella—if it was in fact Ella—ever cross paths with the Valkovs to pass that information along to them?

This is something I need to find out, and I will. Just as I will find a way to get those photos from Ivan. Jared's prepared to see the agreement through the long haul, but I know one thing for sure—that our marriage won't survive it.

Jared emerges from the bathroom, his hair only slightly damp after using the blow dryer. Nude, he climbs into bed, pulls me against him, warm and solid, and soon I forget about everything else. I relax into him, but relaxation turns to heightened senses, tension and anticipation as his familiar touch electrifies every nerve.

When Jared guides himself into me I gasp as he immediately sets the kind of pace that tells me neither of us will last long. I wrap my legs around his flexing lower back and give myself up to sensation. For these precious moments, it's like nothing in the world matters—no problems or uncertainties or fears exist. He rocks into me, knowing exactly what I need, and I clutch at him, gasping, shuddering as I go over the edge, hard.

Within a few moments Jared's breathing becomes ragged and harsh. His body tenses, he lets out a sharp cry, and then collapses on me, breathing heavily. I feel his frantic heartbeat thudding against my chest. We stay like this for a moment before Jared breathes out a long sigh and rolls to one side.

Afterward, he lays close behind me, spooning me like we always do as we bask in the buzzy, warm afterglow. He's here with me and I know I should try to talk to him, but I don't want to shatter this peace we've woven around ourselves again. It's like a little world, quiet and still, where nothing and no one exists but us. Instead, I settle against his solid warmth and enjoy our closeness, ignoring the voice in my head warning me that something's definitely off-kilter, and the quick, somewhat impersonal sex— _like it or not, Lanie, that's what it was, quick and impersonal_ —does nothing to assuage that certainty. If anything, it drives the fact completely home.

Oh, bullshit. Jared's hellishly busy. He has a multitude of things on his plate right now, and he has deadlines to meet. I know he's been upset about Shannon's abrupt move to Seattle, something that took all of us by surprise. I also know he's planning an extensive tour of both Europe and the U.S., ending with Camp Mars in August, and he worries if it'll sell the way it needs to in order to be at all profitable.

The prospect of six months of constant touring worries me, too. Not only because of the extended separation—if the ten-day Europe trip is any indication, I have no idea how we'll handle a much longer one—but because of Jared's back and leg which are getting stronger, but only gradually and only if he continues to take extra care of himself. Tours are physically grueling, and I'm not totally convinced he'll be in shape for it, no matter how much he insists he will be.

 

***

 

I walk up and down the aisles of Neiman Marcus in a daze, doing my best to act like I fit in. It's difficult, though. The store is busy with holiday shoppers, and they're the kind of well-dressed beautiful people one would expect in a Beverly Hills department store. Looking at them, I feel myself shrinking into my plain denim jacket and jeans. Holiday music plays overhead. Christmas lights and beautifully ornamented trees as well as Hanukkah decorations abound, lending a festive air to the place. And a welcome familiarity for me, about the only thing I can relate to.

Jared is a few feet ahead of us, dressed down in a ball cap and dark Carrera shades, wearing a graphic print tee, unbuttoned red flannel shirt and ripped jeans. From most angles, he could be anyone. But despite his attire he can't disguise himself completely; he still carries himself with that invisible cloak of being  _someone._  Beside me, Jimmy keeps a sharp eye on our surroundings. I'm sure movie stars and other celebrities are hardly a rare sighting here, but one can never be too careful.

As we browse, the sticker shock leaves me slack-jawed, and the designer labels—a few I've at least heard of, but many I haven't and can't even pronounce—it's all a bit of an overload for me. Shelby doesn't seem overwhelmed. She's walking alongside Jimmy with Tyrell and chattering amiably with them about visiting the cafe on the fourth floor once we pick out a gift for Constance.

I have to admit it—I don't belong here in this lavish department store no matter who I'm with and how much I pretend indifference to the luxuriousness of it. I really don't much like shopping anyway, at least not Jared's kind of shopping. He has particular, discerning tastes and infinite patience, two qualities I sorely lack. I'm more of a get in, get what you came to get or a reasonable facsimile thereof, and get the hell out kind of shopper, unless it's Cabelas or a military surplus outlet. But this is such a couple-y thing to be doing, and such a rarity for us that I curb my restlessness, my decidedly out-of-place-ness, and just go along with it as I did when Flora dragged me to Rodeo Drive the first day we met.

Shopping with Flora had turned out to be kind of fun, and it's with a stab of sadness that I realize how much I miss my friend. I have to find a way to mend fences with her, although I know the only way to breach that chasm is to rectify the one thing that caused it. I have to come clean to Jared. But for the life of me I don't know of an easy or painless way to do that.

"How about this?"

I snap out of my inner musings as Jared indicates an off-white purse on a shelf in a three-sided glass display case. "Mom's always running around with that ratty hobo bag. She needs something nicer."

I step closer to pick up and read the price tag, and then I barely hold back a gasp. _Almost two thousand dollars for a fucking purse?_ "Your mom doesn't strike me as a designer bag type of woman," I reply. I step back quickly, as if afraid an alarm will start shrieking. "I think she carries that hobo bag because she happens to like it."

Jared sighs. "Yeah, a Chloe probably wouldn't be her thing." We leave the handbags and continue walking through the store, and I notice we're slowly heading in the direction of the jewelry department.

"What about jewelry?" Shelby suggests as the cases full of diamonds, gold, and colorful gemstone-studded accessories come into view.

"Jewelry's good. You can't really go wrong there," I agree.

Jared smirks. "She  _makes_  jewelry."

My shoulders slump. What kind of Christmas gift would a simple laid-back woman like Constance really like and use? I shrug, out of ideas, not that I had any to begin with. Besides disliking shopping as a whole, I'm the most unimaginative gift-giver on earth.

We somehow end up at a vast display of picture and art frames. Jared lowers his shades as he looks them over, his eyes lighting up.  _Finally,_ I think as he settles on one frame in particular that looks like it's made of blue ceramic, trimmed in gold, the indigo shade matching Jared's eyes almost exactly. The corners of the frame are gold with blue gems inset. Given the opulence of this store I wouldn't doubt the stones are genuine and that the gold is real.

"That's nice," Jimmy offers. "Real nice."

"It's beautiful," I agree, although I wonder why anyone would bother with picture frames as ornate as these or any of the others on display, some of which are downright gaudy.

"I could get her a set of matching ones," Jared murmurs, pointing out two more of the same design. The largest one would hold an eleven-by-thirteen picture, the other two, eight-by-ten. "Mom would love these, don't you guys think?" he says.

"Definitely." I think of Constance's vast collection of photography on her walls, along with more photos and artwork she's shown me that have yet to be framed. Then I look at the price tags, calculate the total and feel light-headed.

_A little over a thousand dollars. For a set of three picture frames. Holy fucking shit._

Jared summons a sales clerk over, requesting the frames be boxed and gift-wrapped. In a way I'm disappointed by this. I'm actually pretty good at wrapping presents, and that way could feel like I've contributed at least something to the gift.

"Can we go to the cafe now?" Shelby asks, as the clerk takes the frames away to be packaged.

"Yeah, can we? I'm hungry," Ty chimes in.

"Yeah, I guess we—" Jared begins, and then he stops, his attention pulled away from the kids by something behind me. "Well, hey!" He exclaims. "Chris and Emily! Fancy running into you guys!"

Jimmy and I both turn, Jimmy going on alert for a split second. Then he relaxes as the nice-looking man with tousled blond-ish hair and a pretty, chestnut-haired woman approach us. With them is a girl around Shelby's age, also with long dark hair. She smiles shyly at Shelby and Ty. All three of them are casually but nicely dressed.

"Hey, Jared," the man smiles, his face open and friendly. "Christmas shopping, huh?"

"Yeah, I had to pick up something for my mom," Jared answers. "You too?"

"Yeah, for my parents and my sister and her kids." The man indicates the frames on display. "We took a detour here because I have a couple more photos I'd like to get frames for while we're here."

"Where he thinks he'll hang them, I have no idea," the woman puts in with a smirk. "You've seen our walls."

Jared chuckles, and then he seems to remember us. Slipping an arm around my waist, he says, "Oh—Chris and Emily, I'd like you to meet Lanie and her daughter Shelby." He nods at Jimmy and Tyrell. "This is Jimmy Quentin, my friend and chief of security, and his son, Tyrell." Gesturing at the couple, he continues, "Guys, this is Chris Pine, his wife Emily, and I'll bet this pretty young lady is Mac." He grins at the little girl, who nods and smiles back at him.

I wonder if this is the Chris and Emily that Flora spoke of a while back, the actor and the former waitress from Ohio. But of course I don't ask. "Hi," I say instead, putting out my hand. "It's very nice to meet you."

Chris shakes my hand, firm but not overly so. "Hi, Lanie, nice to meet you, too," he says with a warm smile. Both his and Emily's expressions are open, friendly, and in the case of Emily especially, there's a glint of curiosity as she glances at Jared's arm still around my waist.

I feel comfortable with them immediately although Chris carries that same  _somebody_  aura like an invisible cloak as Jared does. And while Emily certainly has the looks to be a movie star, she seems more like someone I'd run into at the local Safeway.

"We were just going to the cafe," Jared says, nodding at the kids. "The way these two are carrying on, they haven't eaten in days."

Chris laughs heartily. "The munchkin was just asking if we could go grab a bite, and I'm a teensy bit hungry myself. Mind if we join you?"

 

***

 

A table for eight is quickly set up for us and in no time we're seated in Neiman-Marcus's bar-and-sandwich shop adjacent to the men's department. "I might have to look at a few things while we're up here," Chris muses, glancing up from his club sandwich at the endless racks of suits and casual wear on the other side of the restaurant's half-wall.

Next to him, Emily groans. "Pine, you can't fit a piece of paper between anything hanging in your closet already." She leans over the table and grins conspiratorially at me. "I bet Jared's a clothes horse, too, isn't he?"

I think of the jam-packed wardrobe still in Jared's old bedroom and the way the rest of his things have taken over the closet in ours. "To say the least," I murmur around a mouthful of pasta salad.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Emily asks me as I surreptitiously scope out the restaurant, both to see if our table is attracting any attention and if I can spot any other  _somebodies_. A couple of people look a bit familiar but they're too far away and not facing me directly. I return my gaze to Emily. "I'm an EMT," I answer. I shift my gaze to Jared. I have no idea how much I'm supposed to say. Jared's attention is on Chris as they're discussing something about Chris's most recent film, so he's no help. "Well, I was where I used to live."

"That's really cool," Emily says, nodding. "Rewarding, you know, being the first on the scene in an emergency, but as the daughter of a police chief, I know how stressful it can be, too."

I think of some of my more harrowing rescues, Jared's most recently, and I nod. "Yeah, it was." I pause and then ask, "So what do you do?"

"I've done some acting, but mostly I'm a wife and a mom." Emily glances toward the end of the table, where her daughter, Shelby, Tyrell and Jimmy are seated. Jimmy's engaging with the kids, all the while his dark eyes are watchful of our surroundings. The three kids are chatting amiably and giggling, all three of them with their phones out. Emily watches them a moment, grinning. "Looks like they're best friends already."

Indeed they do, and I can't help but grin too, warming up even more to both Emily and Chris the longer I'm in their company. They're just so—so  _not_  Hollywood. Like, at all. They're insanely  _normal,_ despite both being in the business. Chris has been in many successful films—many I've heard of, but none of which I've seen because of my prior off-grid living. Emily has done some on-camera work on television—commercials, guest spots on prime-time series and the like.

"Next is a feature film," Emily muses, her blue eyes twinkling. "Well, I hope it is. I'd love to find that perfect, multi-dimensional and strong female role." She shrugs. "Those aren't exactly plentiful, though."

"You'll find one," Chris assures her, sliding his arm around her and squeezing a little. "I have no doubt about that."

"From your lips to CAA's ears," Emily smirks.

Chris grins back, then turns to Jared. "So—what are the two of you doing New Year's Eve?"

Jared glances at me, then back at Chris, shrugging. "I have no idea. I'd been thinking of running up to Seattle to see Shannon, but I guess he's going on a ski trip with his girlfriend and her parents to Tahoe. Kind of celebrating closing on their new house, too."

My eyebrows raise, both at the idea of Shannon skiing and at this first mention I've heard about anyone going to Seattle for New Year's Eve. Did Jared mean just him going, or all of us? I decide it doesn't matter anyway since it's not happening, but something way down deep stabs at me...the fact that I even have to wonder about it.

"Well, we're thinking of having another get-together," Chris says easily. "You, Lanie, and Shelby would be more than welcome to come hang out and ring in 2018 with us."

"Oh." Jared's eyes flit to me briefly, so quickly I can't read the expression in them. "Well—"

Emily suddenly leans on the table toward Jared. "You should know I invited Kristov, too."

At the mention of Kristov's name, I start in surprise and my heart skips several beats. I quickly look at Jared, but he doesn't look back at me. His attention's solely on Emily.

"We know you're worried about him, and so are we," Chris puts in quietly, his animated smiling face now somber. "When you called the other day and told Ems and I what you saw when you walked with Kristov back to his house—" he grimaces— "it just confirms what Ems thought she'd picked up on a while ago. So have I." He sighs and rubs his face. "Kristov needs to know he doesn't have to live like this. Someone who's known and cared about him as long as you have might be the only one who'll get through to him."

My heart, already beating frantically, rises in my throat as Chris's words register. The cold feeling in me expands, numbing my fingers, my toes. My mouth goes desert-dry. My stomach clenches and twists into knots. I will Jared to look at me, some foolishly hopeful part of me waiting for Jared to see my look of consternation, laugh, pat my hand and tell me not to worry, this is a different Kristov.

Of course it's not a different Kristov. I know it's not because of the way Jared's eyes are still so wholly fixed on the couple. Wide and unblinking. Intense. Alert. In fact, his entire body has gone rigid.

Only with the most supreme, superhuman effort do I keep my face neutral, even smiling a little as I tear my eyes from Jared to turn my attention to Shelby. She's still chattering up a storm with Tyrell and her new friend Mac, munching her BLT sandwich and happily oblivious to anything else going on at the table.

Everything makes perfect sense now—an awful kind of perfect sense.


	12. Lanie

"What are you doing to those poor rose bushes?" Magda asks from behind me.

I finish cutting the stubborn branch between my hedge clippers before turning around, lowering them and wiping perspiration from my brow. It's not nearly warm enough out to work up a sweat by temperature alone, but I've been at this task, and others around the property, for quite some time today.

Magda looks at the ground around my feet. It's covered in clippings. He shakes his head, asking,"What did these bushes ever do to you?" He points over his shoulder. "Or that Manzanita tree?"

I roll my shoulders and cock my head to one side and then the other to work out an annoying crick in my neck. "What's up?" I ask, stripping off my gardener's gloves.

Magda folds his arms across his chest. "Well, I just came out here to say one thing. This—whatever it is between the two of you—it's gone on long enough."

I shoot a look at him. "It's not—"

Magda holds up a hand. "It's not my business. Yes, I know that, but I'll say it anyway. When are you two going to talk and work out whatever happened?"

I get down on my knees to sort out the rose buds from the rest of the clippings, avoiding Magda's eyes. "What do you mean, when are we going to talk? We talk."

"You talk, but that's not the same as  _talking_. Christmas is in a few days, your mother-in-law is coming over, and you can cut the tension in this house with a knife."

"That's just a little bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" Using the shears, I carefully snip the rose buds from their stems. "Jared's—he's stressed out with getting the new single finished, the album's still behind schedule, and there's prepping for the tour besides."

Magda hunkers down so we're at eye level—that is, if I were to look at him, which I don't. "I've worked for and with Jared a long time, Lanie," he says. "Ten years now. I'm well aware of how he is when he has a tight schedule. I've been through preparations for films and tours and the race to meet record company deadlines. That's only a tiny part of what this is about. This is different. You're both putting on a show like nothing's going on, but the strained vibe in this house and coming off the two of you is as clear as day."

I grit my teeth against the resentment brewing in me and keep my eyes on my task. "That's right, you work for Jared. So why don't you talk to  _him_  about what your spidey-senses are telling you?"

"I have talked to him."

I continue snipping the rose buds. "And?"

"And he's about as tight-lipped and as in denial as you are," Magda answers with a sigh. "So the two of you are going to host Christmas with this problem between you hanging around like the proverbial elephant in the room.  _That_  should be a good time." Magda slowly straightens to his full height. I still don't look up, but I can feel his eyes on me. He starts to turn, stops, and adds, "Flora says hi, by the way."

I can't help it—I flinch at the mention of Flora's name. But at the same time, a spark of hope ignites in me.. If there's any chance Flora's message is her way of trying to reach out and mend our friendship, I'm grabbing it. Maybe it's purely for selfish reasons, because I really need her right now, but still—"Tell her hi back. And that I miss her."

"We're flying out to Minnesota this evening for the holidays," Magda says, nodding. "She said when she gets back she'd like to see you."

I'm silent for a moment as I digest this. Obviously Magda is aware that Flora and I aren't speaking—there's no way he couldn't know—but I get the feeling Flora hasn't told him why. "Tell her—tell her I'd like that," I murmur. Slipping my gloves back on, I begin to gather the thorny clippings in a pile to put in the compost bin. Taking a deep breath, squinting my eyes against the sun high overhead, I finally look up. Magda's a tall silhouette, his features and expression are indiscernible."And tell her I'm ready, but I'm not doing it until after the holidays."

Magda cocks his head to the side. "I take it she'll understand what that means?"

"Yeah. She'll understand perfectly."

When Magda's gone, I sit back on my haunches and continue sorting the rosebuds. Winter and Christmas, even in L.A., isn't the same without my homemade rosehip tea. This morning when I told Jared about making it from the buds of wild rose bushes that grew around the lake back home, he seemed interested in trying it. Especially as the drink is loaded with nutrition, including Vitamin C—essential to warding off any respiratory viruses he can ill afford to come down with right now. And so I smiled and said I would grab some rosebuds from the bushes by the pool and make some. All perfectly normal conversation. There were smiles and even a kiss exchanged. The guys showed up shortly afterward and they all disappeared into the studio as usual.

Magda's right, though. The tension between Jared and I has ramped up several notches ever since the shopping trip to Neiman Marcus, an unacknowledged blanket laying its weight on every inch of living space in the compound. Even Shelby's picked up on it, even though Jared and I are not fighting—at all—and a part of me wonders if that isn't some of the problem. We haven't exchanged an angry word since getting home that evening, though there sure were plenty hurled that night.

 

***

 

Other than Jared mentioning running into him in London at the EMA after-party, Kristov Belneczek has been a virtual non-subject between us since our trip to Oak Creek Canyon. Jared insisted then that the man is part of his past, a past he was reluctant to even talk about. Given the wealth of problems he's had as a result of that relationship, I could completely understand why.

And so discovering that Jared spent at least a portion of his twenty-four-hour disappearance with his ex-lover sent me into a tailspin. I managed to hold it together until after we returned home and I went out to my patio, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and dark suspicion. When I sensed Jared's presence behind me, I didn't hold back any longer.

Without turning around I said, "So...now I know why you didn't want to tell me where you went that night and why you've been acting the way you have been ever since."

At first Jared said nothing, but then I heard his quiet footsteps on the gravel, coming closer. "It isn't—"

"What I think," I finished for him, and let out a soft laugh. "Yeah. It never is."

"It _isn't,"_  Jared insisted. "He's married, for one thing."

My eyes swiveled to Jared's as he stepped around the swing and looked down at me. Through clenched teeth I hissed, "Oh, I see. So, tell me something. If Kristov  _wasn't_  married, would the fact that  _you're_ married matter?"

Jared's eyes narrowed. "That's not what I meant. Christ, Lanie." He exhaled loudly. "I actually first ran into Kristov's husband, Alex. He came up to me in a—in a club down on Santa Monica. I didn't even know who he was at first." He rubbed the thick beard on his jaw with one hand. "I was pretty fucked up."

I frowned. "Fucked up? What do you mean, you were fucked up?"

He stared down at me. "I'd been drinking. A lot."

My mouth dropped open. "You were  _drunk?"_

Jared snorted. "An understatement, but yeah. I was drunk. Beyond drunk. I was  _wasted."_  He sighed and added, a bit shamefaced, "I ended up puking and I passed out. Alex and Kristov brought me to their house in Los Feliz and let me sleep it off."

I stared at him, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. "And they couldn't have brought you home instead?"

Jared shrugged. "It was late, and I wasn't exactly in any condition to give them the security code."

"Okay..." I wrung my hands together. "So, let's review. You left here pissed off at me. You, a non-drinker, ended up at some club getting trashed. Then you somehow ran into your ex-boyfriend Kristov—who by the way has made our lives hell—and his husband Alex. You puked, passed out, and spent the night at their house. And you've been acting weird ever since. How am I doing so far?"

"Lanie—"

"I just want to make sure I've got everything right, so when you get to the part about why you couldn't be bothered to answer a simple phone call or text, and why you waited until midnight the next night to come home, maybe I'll understand it."

"I wasn't ready to talk to you," Jared rasped. His voice lowered and he gazed out over the pool, where the moonlight lay shimmering over its still surface. "And Kristov asked me to stay. He asked me to go to Chris and Emily's with him and Alex." He drew a quivering breath. "He'll never admit it, but I think in his own way he was crying out to me for help."

I frowned. "Help? With what?" Then I remembered Chris and Emily's words in the restaurant. About Jared being worried about Kristov, and that they felt Jared might be the only one to get through to him. "Oh." I got to my feet and approached him, speaking gently. "Look, Jared, it's not your place to help him or even worry about him. His problems are just that— _his_  problems. Especially after what he's done, why would you even  _want_  to get involved in another mess he's created?"

I didn't like the look Jared was giving me, but I forged on anyway. He needed to hear the hard truth whether he liked it or not. "I've lived with a drug addict. Remember? I was married to one, and those people will drag you down and destroy your life when you let their issues become yours. I know from first-hand experience. Besides," I continued, "not only has Kristov caused you enough trouble already, he's also been out of your life for eight years. You've moved on. He relapsed. So..." my voice trails off and further words freeze in my throat as Jared approached me. The closer he stepped, the clearer his flushed, livid expression became.

His eyes sparking blue fire, his hands clenched into fists, he snarled, "You don't know anything about what Kristov is dealing with, Lanie. Not a fucking clue."

"The _hell_ I don't!" I exclaimed. "It's  _you_  who's clueless. Addicts are—"

"He's not a fucking addict!" Jared shouted in my face. "He's being fucking  _abused!"_

I stepped back, startled, and stared at Jared. There was something in his eyes I'd never seen before. There's anger. There's anguish. And something else, too. Something sharp, intense, dangerous, and a little frightening.  _"Abused?"_  I whisper.

Jared lowered his voice too, but it was still as strident, still fueled by a stew of emotions. "Yeah. Alex is abusing Kristov. Mentally.  _Physically._  I saw it."

My eyes widened. "You  _saw_  Alex hit him?"

"No, but I heard it." Jared drew in a quivering breath. "Kristov didn't want me to know, but I could tell he was hurt, and after we left Chris and Emily's I made him show me. He had a big mark on his shoulder that went almost to his spine. He showed it to me and then he said he never wants to see me again." He made a strangled sound in his throat and continued, his voice a harsh rasp, "So lighten up about him, Lanie—you have nothing to worry about." Jared spun around and swiftly walked back toward the house.

"Jared—"

At first I didn't think he'd stop, but he did. When he turned, I held my hands out to my sides in a supplicating gesture. "I'm sorry. I—I didn't know," I said softly.

Jared stared at me a moment, and then finger-combed his hair away from his face. In the dark and at a distance, I couldn't make out which of his many expressions he wore. But I heard him make that strangled sound again. "Yeah, well, now you know." Without another word, he went inside the house.

 

***

 

Celebrating our first Christmas together with all of this hanging over us is not the kind of holiday I've planned, but here it is. Actually, it's a combined celebration of Constance's birthday on the twenty-third, Christmas, and Jared's forty-sixth birthday the day after Christmas.

I've put on a happy face for Shelby, and even joined in with her, Jared, Magda, Ana and Carmen in putting up decorations the week before. I also baked two beautiful birthday cakes for Jared and his mother. I prepared and brewed an enormous quantity of rose hip tea, which Jared has tried and loves. But the undercurrent of tension hasn't eased between us. If anything, it's gotten worse, the silences thicker and longer, the conversations more careful and stilted.

Oh, we talk, like I told Magda. Meaning, we make words and speak them, responding when spoken to, but Magda's right. That's not talking. That's just...talk.

With Shelby, Jared's fine. She's out of school on winter break, and he spends a lot of time with her—taking her out for ice cream, to a movie with Tyrell and a couple of girl friends from school, on a hike in Griffith Park, and a few times he, Tomo and Stevie took a break from the studio to play video games with her in the tower.

By contrast, on the few occasions I can catch Jared long enough to try to sit him down and have a real conversation—about Kristov, about the possibility that Ella fed the Valkovs information about me and how that might have happened, about the tabloid rumors and gossip still being bandied around the internet, about what's going on between us—he's either evasive or,  on as on one memorable night, he changes the subject entirely by bringing my mouth to his, kissing me so thoroughly it makes my head spin. The passionate lovemaking that follows leaves me weak, exhausted, and wondering if I've been imagining all of this strain over the last several days.

By mutual agreement, Jared and I decided we won't exchange gifts. There's nothing either of us want or need, at least nothing that can be purchased, gift-wrapped, and placed under the mammoth tree in the main living room with several presents already there for Shelby and Constance.

There's one thing Jared can give me, and he's begun to. Since the night we made love—really made love, not the quick impersonal sex we've been having recently—I've sensed the beginning of an easing in the tension. I don't question why or what's causing this shift back, but on Christmas Eve Jared offers the closest he's come to an explanation and an apology.

"I work too much," he sighs, drawing me next to him in our big bed. Staring at the ceiling, he shrugs and adds, "I'm sometimes too focused. I get tunnel vision. I react harshly and unreasonably. I get overwhelmed with everything, and I shut everyone and everything else out. I've shut you out." He turns his head and kisses my temple. "I guess I haven't gotten used to fully sharing my world and all that goes on in it with someone else."

I snuggle close to him, wrapping my arm around his waist and nestling my head in his shoulder. "I worry about you sometimes. I worry you're going to burn yourself out. But I really don't mind sharing you with your passion. I love your drive and determination. It's made you into who you are." I move a little to kiss his  _Provehito in Altum_  tattoo, and then skim over it with my fingertip. "Launch forth into the deep," I whisper, and glance up at his face. Jared's watching me. "You live and breathe that motto."

"Yeah," he says quietly, covering my hand on his chest with his own. "Sometimes to the point I'm finding myself drowning in the deep." His chest rises and falls heavily. "Especially lately. I know I'm not an easy man to live with, much less love."

I could argue that, but I don't. Instead, I move up to kiss him, and those kisses don't stop at kisses. In a matter of minutes he's inside me, the soft moonlight seeping into the room from the patio door casting a soft glow over both of us, over Jared's face as he moves languidly within me. He's in no hurry at all. His eyelids are heavy, his eyes dark behind them. He's whispering softly, words I can't quite hear over the swelling waves of sensation inside me, but words don't matter. He's here with me in the moment, fully here with me again at last.

 

***

 

Constance loves the picture frames.

"They're perfect," she murmurs, looking them over and running her fingers over the cool blue ceramic surface of one of them. "I know exactly which photos to put in them and exactly where I'll hang them." She looks up at Jared and me, sitting close together on the big red sofa. "Thank you both, so much."

Even though the frames were a gift from all of us and despite Jared's objection that Constance makes jewelry, Shelby's gift to her is a grandmother's charm bracelet. Constance loves it and envelopes Shelby in a big hug. "I picked it out," Shelby tells her. "And all the charms that go on it."

"I absolutely love it. Thank you, honey." Shelby beams as she puts it on Constance's wrist, carefully fastening the clasp. Tears shimmer in the older woman's eyes. "I'll treasure this always."

"See?" I murmur to Jared. "It  _was_  the perfect gift."

"You're smart," Jared murmurs back with a crooked grin.

Though I told Constance at Thanksgiving that we need absolutely nothing but her presence, she's brought gifts for all of us anyway. "They're nothing grand," she says as she distributes the beautifully wrapped presents. "Just things that made me think of you when I saw them, or made them, as the case may be."

Constance has given Shelby and I each a crystal snowglobe. I lift it from its protective wrapping and hold it up. When I give it a very gentle shake, the globe swirls with silver stars embossed with the words, "Love," "Happiness" and "Peace". Inside the globe sits a striking pink swirl design that curves upward and wraps around a message that reads, "My Daughter-In-Law I Wish You".

"It's so pretty," Shelby sighs happily. Hers is identical to mine, except the message inside which in Shelby's reads "My Granddaughter I Wish You".

"You really do like them?" Constance asks, a trifle anxiously. She leans forward and clasps her hands together."I know neither of you are the girly-girl type, but I couldn't resist them."

"I love it." I smile, admiring the snowglobe. The tag attached the base says it's made of Swarovski crystal and the base itself is sterling silver. "It's beautiful. Thank you, Constance."

Shelby gives hers a good shake, and then her eyes widen as, from somewhere in the snowglobe, music begins to play. "Oh, wow," she breathes. "That's so cool! I've never seen a musical snowglobe before!"

"Yours plays the same song," Constance tells me. "And it's the perfect song for you both."

I recognize the song. It's a tinkling, music-box version of Joe Cocker's  _You are So Beautiful._ I play mine and watch as the snow falls inside the globe amid the silver stars and a lump forms in my throat.

"Oh, Mom," Jared breathes. He's opened the wrapping on his gift and pulls out a jewel-studded and gold brooch in the shape of a lion's head. Beautiful, intricate, and absolutely his style. "You  _made_  this?"

Constance grins and nods. "I sure did. Look at the back of it."

Jared turns it over and his eyes widen. "Oh...it can be worn either as a lapel brooch or a pendant?"

"Yes, it can. I included a gold chain for it, too."

"Oh, God, Mom, this is so beautiful," Jared looks up at her, and his smile is radiant. "I love this. Thank you."

Constance's answering smile, so much like her son's, is just as radiant.

Shelby comes over to look at the brooch, and she oohs and ahhs over it. Then she looks at me. "This is the best Christmas we've ever had, Mom."

"And it's not over yet," Jared says, his eyes shifting to me. They're sparkling with a mischievous glint. "I think there's something for you hanging on the tree."

"There is?" I quickly look at the Christmas tree and scan over the hundreds of ornaments and colored lights.

"Uh-huh." Jared smirks. "Go look and see if you can find it."

Slowly I get to my feet and go to the tree, casting a confused glance behind me at Jared. "Who from?"

"From me, silly," Jared answers with a chuckle.

I frown at him. "But we agreed we're not exchanging gifts."

"I know, but like Mom, I couldn't resist." He nods at the tree. "Go try to find it."

Feeling both ashamed at myself for not getting Jared at least a little something, and at Jared for getting me anything, I walk right up to the tree and begin looking it over. But I see nothing but branches, pine needles, ornaments and lights.

"Should we play hot and cold?" Jared asks behind me, and Shelby giggles.

After another moment of searching and coming up empty, I throw my hands in the air. Feeling a bit ridiculous, I answer, "I guess we'll have to."

"Okay. You're moderately cool."

Stepping to the right, I look closely at the tree, my eyes darting over all of the top branches.

"Colder."

I step to the left again, and Jared says, "Back to moderately cool. Keep going."

I begin to squat down to look at the branches at about waist level.

"A little bit warmer."

I lower myself some more.

"Warmer."

I drop to almost a full squat, still seeing nothing. I throw another glance over my shoulder. Jared, Constance and Shelby are all looking at me and grinning. "Are all of you in on this?" I demand.

Constance laughs. "Keep looking, Lanie."

"Geez," I murmur and turn back to the tree. What the hell could it be? I'm still not seeing anything out of the ordinary. But maybe it's not on the outside of the tree. Maybe it's further in. I begin to part the branches.

"Really warm, almost hot!" Jared encourages.

A surge of excitement shoots through me. This actually is fun, reminiscent of Easter Egg hunts back home when I was a kid.

"Keep going, Mom, you've almost got it!" Shelby cries. Even though it's an artificial tree, it's been treated with essential oil to give it an authentic pine scent. The smell wafts over me as I pull the branches further apart, exposing the faux bark of the trunk, and it's then I see it.

"Hot! Boiling fucking hot!" Jared yells as I reach in for the set of keys hanging suspended by a clip from the layer of light cord wrapped around the innermost part of the tree.

"Keys?" I ask, whipping my head around in confusion. Using my thumb, I unhook them from the lights and draw my hand back. I stand and look at them in confusion. "Keys for what?"

Jared's face is as lit up as the Christmas tree I just mauled. "Go to the garage and find out," he grins.

I look down at the keys again, and then back at him, my head beginning to spin. "You didn't," I murmur shakily. "Jared—tell me you didn't do what I think you did."

"Go  _look,_  Mom!" Shelby practically shouts. She's bouncing up and down on the couch between Jared and his mother, and all three of them are grinning hugely.

"Oh, shit," I mutter, looking down at the keys again. The Jeep insignia is clearly visible, and my stomach quakes. "Jared Joseph Leto, I swear I'm going to wring your fucking neck."

 

***

 

"So, you like it?" Jared asks me a week later as we're buzzing through Laurel Canyon on our way to Los Feliz. Shelby's in the back, Jared's riding shotgun, and I'm behind the wheel of the first brand-new vehicle I've ever had in my life. He's asked me this question countless times since I walked out to the garage on Christmas day and nearly fainted at the sight of the cocoa-brown SUV parked next to his Bronco.

"I love it and you know it," I reply, my eyes skimming over the dash panel and all the fancy gadgets it features. Thus far I've barely figured out any of the accessories. "I need a degree in rocket science to operate some of this stuff, though."

Jared laughs. "You'll get the hang of it."

"Hmph," I mumble. "It took me forever just to figure out how this satellite radio works."

Aside from all the new technology this vehicle has built into it, it's the perfect car for me. I'd never be comfortable in some high-end sleek sports car or luxury sedan and Jared knows that. He couldn't have chosen better than what he did; a 2018 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 2-door, equally capable of off-roading as well as a comfortable ride on the highway.

But it's such an extravagant gift, especially in light of the fact that we had an agreement not to give each other anything at all. "You needed to have something of your own, something that gives you more independence and something you'd really use and enjoy," is all he'll say when I hound him about it.

Just in the space of these few days, I wonder how I ever got along without my own car for so long. Jared still insists that someone—Jimmy, David, and/or Gene—accompany me if I'm running around the most visible places in L.A., but on the two occasions I've taken a drive out of the city, I've gone alone. The exhilarating freedom that comes with it is something incredible that I haven't felt in months, and a twinge of something—a little sadness, a little longing, and more than a touch of homesickness—flickers inside me as I realize just how much I've missed my life outside of the city, how much I've missed just breathing and being.

I wind my way down a quiet, curving residential street, following Jared's directions to Chris and Emily's house. It's early evening, and in the gaps between houses and trees, I can see the white Hollywood sign now bathed orange from the sun sinking into the Pacific Ocean in the distance. "God, is it beautiful up here," I murmur.

Jared's response isn't what I expect it to be. "What the fuck is that?" he mutters, drawing my attention to his side of the Jeep. He's staring ahead of us, his profile etched in a frown.

"What?" I ask.

"That," he says, pointing at black tire tracks in the street swinging out from the driveway of a moderately sized home set back on a slightly inclining lot. The tracks swing widely, straighten, and then fade to nothing.

"Those look fresh," I remark. "Someone sure was in a hurry."

"Yeah." Jared turns and looks at the house as we pass it. His chin rests in one hand, the elbow propped on the window ledge. The other is in his lap, clenched in a tight fist, and with sudden realization, I know whose house it is.

I slow the Jeep to a crawl. "Do you—do you want to stop?"

Jared lowers his arm and unclenches his other fist. He turns to me and shakes his head. "No." He points out the windshield with his chin. "That's Chris and Emily's place, right up here on the left."

"Okay." I speed up again, and then swing into the driveway Jared indicates. I'm a bit surprised at the house when it comes into view. It's not as large as I expect, and the whole front of it is covered in vines. Even the windows, and there are many, have greenery all over them. But I'm even more surprised to see there are no other cars parked in the drive. "Are we early?" I ask, glancing at Jared uncertainly. "They said come around five for the barbecue, and—" I point at the dashboard's clock that Jared had to set for me. "It's just after five."

"Maybe they just wanted us for dinner, and invited more people for drinks later." He points. "They're out back barbecuing, though. See the smoke?"

I look and spot the wisping gray curls rising behind the house. "Okay," I shrug. We get out of the Jeep, and just then the front door of the house opens. The little girl, Mac, comes running out onto the portico with a black and white dog at her heels.

"Hi, Shelby!" she calls. Over her shoulder she yells, "Mom! Dad! Jared and Lanie and Shelby are here!"

"I'm right here, Mac." Emily appears in the doorway, laughing. Today her hair is up in an untidy but fetchingly cute bun, escaped tendrils flying everywhere as they're caught on the breeze. Dressed in a mauve hoodie and jeans and sneakers on her feet, her appearance sets me immediately at ease. I'm in jeans as well and, with the temperature in the low fifties combined with the brisk wind, we've all opted to wear hoodies, too.

Jared reaches Emily first. "Hey Emily," he murmurs, kissing her cheek and giving her a hug. "Happy New Year."

"Hey Jared," Emily beams back at him, and then she turns to me for a hug. "Hi, Lanie. I'm so glad y'all could make it."

"Thanks for inviting us," I say, hugging her back.

"Chris is out back and has the grill fired up already. Mac, why don't you show Shelby your room—" Emily pauses and looks around. The girls are nowhere in sight, but I hear their voices from somewhere inside. "I guess she already did," Emily laughs. "Well, come on in."

I look around as we walk through the house. There are photos and paintings everywhere. Emily wasn't kidding at Neiman Marcus when she said there was nowhere to put any more. The subjects are eclectic, as are the styles of photography and art, but somehow the mashup seems to work. I sense an odd familiarity about the furnishings and color scheme, too.

"Flora was their designer," Jared informs me, as if reading my thoughts.

 _Ah, that's why._  "Your house is beautiful," I tell Emily.

"Thanks," Emily smiles over her shoulder at me. "We're keeping it closed—" she indicates a huge expanse of glass in front of us— "because it's a little cold tonight. We can eat in here, if that's okay with y'all?"

"Not a problem," Jared answers.

Emily opens one of the glass panels and sticks her head out. "Jared and Lanie are here," she announces, and then turns as Jared approaches her. Almost inaudibly, he asks,"Is Kristov going to be here?"

Emily puts her hand on Jared's arm, her smile slipping a little. "I texted him this morning to confirm that he'd be here. He said he'd try."

Jared nods slowly, his eyes darkening slightly. "Okay."

Emily starts for a doorway to the right of us."Would y'all like something to drink? Jared, Lanie?"

"Some iced tea or lemonade, if you have it," I answer. "If not, water's fine."

"Iced tea it is," Emily grins, and disappears into the adjoining kitchen.

Chris comes in then, and he beams at Jared. "Good to see you," he says, pulling Jared into a hug before turning to me with another affable greeting and hug. His sweater is chilly, and he smells like barbecue, sending a wave of nostalgia and homesickness through me.

"Damn, it's cold out there, though. Sucks, I was hoping we could hang out on the patio again and tell our war stories." Chris's blue eyes have a resigned look in them. Then he glances at me, a teasing glint replacing resignation."Ya, but a-course, for a Minne- _so-_ tan like you, it's prolly nice 'n warm out der, don'tcha know."

  Jared winces. "Holy shit, that's awful."  

But I laugh at Chris's exaggerated Minnesota accent. "Hey, I think it's pretty good. With a little practice you could pass for a native." I drop him a wink.

The three of us laugh, and then Emily reappears from the kitchen with two glasses of iced tea. Jared takes one, murmuring his thanks, and I take the other.

"I better get back to the grill before we end up eating hockey pucks," Chris says. "Care to brave the elements with me, Jared?"

"Sure," Jared answers, and he follows Chris outside.

Emily seats herself across from me and gives me a friendly smile. "Are you vegan as well?" she asks.

I nod. "I kind of picked it up when I moved here. Before that? Almost everything I ate had a face."

"You're from Northern Minnesota, right? Up near Canada, I heard."

I nod again. "It's called The Arrowhead. You know, that pointed part of Northeastern Minnesota above Lake Superior."

Emily smiles. "I bet it's beautiful there."

"Yeah," I say, a tad dreamily. "Miles of nothing but woods, lakes, rivers and streams. And the Superior shoreline is all rocky cliffs, like something you'd see in Ireland."

"Sounds almost like the Italian island we spent our honeymoon at." Emily looks out at the guys grilling, focusing on her husband. "Chris filmed for two weeks in Italy for  _Wonder Woman._  We loved it so much that we decided to go back for our honeymoon. It was amazing." She shifts her gaze back to me. "Have you traveled out of the country?"

"A little. I spent some time in rural Quebec, Canada, and also worked as a volunteer medic in Guatemala several years ago," I say. "But I've never been to Europe." It's my turn to look outside. Jared and Chris appear to be engaging in lively conversation. "Jared leaves in March to go on tour for six months. The first leg of it is in Europe."

"I can't imagine being away from Chris for that long. Man, that's gotta be hard." Emily's blue eyes are sympathetic.

Considering I damn near went out of my mind when Jared was on a ten-day trip, I can't imagine it right now, either. "It's part and parcel of being married to a musician," I say with a sigh. "Touring is their bread and butter."

"Yeah, but you could probably convince him to take you and Shelby with him," Emily points out. "Chris has it written into his contract that the studio has to provide accommodations for us and a tutor for Mac. He's had that since his  _Wonder Woman_  days."

I shift uncomfortably, and then glance outside as laughter reaches my ears. Both Chris and Jared are cracking up about something, and Chris is patting Jared on the back. Emily's steady blue eyes are on me, and I don't know how much I can tell her. Jared never mentioned whether or not I can be straight with the Pines, but I know I have to say something. I sip my iced tea and study the ice cubes floating in the glass. "It's not something we've really discussed. He'll be back in The States at the end of May, and there are breaks in the tour. We'll manage." I smile brightly. "That's why God made FaceTime."

"That's true. There was one time Chris went on a roadtrip with a bunch of guys for a week. One of them was getting married and they wanted to have one last blast. Chris was the one that was getting ragged on, because he always wanted to be where there was a cell signal." Emily smiled softly at the memory. "He actually ended up coming home a day early because he missed us. After that, we promised each other that we wouldn't spend more than a week apart."

 _Just like Jared returned from London a day early because he missed us. But no promises were made about long absences in the future, because that's not him. That's not us._  "You're a lucky woman," I murmur, and drink some more iced tea.

"I am. I'm  a very lucky woman. I guess you could say that Chris rescued me and taught me a lot about myself and how to be loved again."

I nod. "You two seem like total soulmates. You seemed to have assimilated into life here really well. I don't know how you did it."

Emily chuckles. "Believe me, it wasn't always like that. When Chris and I first got together and we made our first trip out here, there was a time that I believed a gossip site before believing him." I wince at this, while Emily continues, "Big mistake. We ended up fighting for a day and a half before he was able to sit me down and explain that he was actually with his  _sister,_  picking up one of my birthday presents."

"Oh, God," I mutter, and cover my face with my hands. "I know exactly what you mean. Jared's always making the tabloids and gossip sites.  _Always._  It's awful."

Emily sighs. "I've learned that when it comes to the gossip sites, to really not pay attention to them. You have to have a thick skin when you're in the business, or when you're the wife of an A-lister. Thank fucking God, Chris doesn't care about making the tabloids. He cares about the work and the art of it."

Just then the glass door slides open and Chris and Jared step in, followed by a gust of chilly, smoky wind. "Who's hungry?" Chris asks cheerfully. He scans the empty table and gives his wife a playful glare. "Where's the chow?"

Emily jumps up and sticks her tongue out at him. "Lanie and I've been yapping and I haven't gotten the rest of the food out. Keep your britches on, Pine, and call the girls for dinner." She heads for the kitchen.

"Need a hand?" I call after her.

"I'd appreciate it. Knowing Chris and how he devours food, we'd better get on it," Emily answers with a laugh.

 

***

 

Dinner is fantastic, reminiscent of cook-outs back home that my dad often hosted for our guests. Juicy burgers—vegan for Jared and me—a heap of genuine southern-style potato salad, corn on the cob that tastes so fresh I wonder where on earth they got it in December, slaw and chips and Texas sheet cake for dessert. I'm as stuffed as a goose.

"Hey," Emily suggests. "You feel like going for a walk, Lanie?"

Chris cocks an eyebrow at her. "It's cold out, Angel."

Emily snickers. "These thin-blooded California boys. Is it cold out, Lanie?"

"Shorts and flip-flops weather," I answer with a grin. Beside me, Jared rolls his eyes.

"Besides, I need to work off that extra piece of cake, and Wednesday could use the exercise after that big-ass hamburger patty I saw you feed her," Emily admonishes Chris.

"It fell on the floor," Chris objects. "Why let it go to waste?"

"Can we come?" Mac asks, indicating Shelby. "If you walk far enough down the street you can see the Hollywood sign and the ocean way out there."

"Sure," Emily says, getting up from the table.

"I see how you are," Chris grumbles teasingly. "This is your way of putting me on dish detail—just like last time."

"Hey, this will give y'all more time to talk shop just like I know you want to." She looks at me. "You get two actors together and all they want to do is talk about the business and what's in the pipeline."

Jared grins. "I do wash a mean dish, Pine. That was my first job, actually. I was twelve."

"See? They're already doing it," Emily snickers. "Let's go girls, and let the movie stars bond over grease and suds."

We stand and start for the door, making it halfway before Chris calls out to Emily.

"Angel, I need something before you go."

Emily stops and turns, her hands on her hips. "And what's that, Christopher?"

"A kiss."

"I guess I can give you one, since you weren't that bad." Emily returns to the dining room, leans down and kisses Chris. She whispers something to him and his eyes light up.

"I'm going to hold you to that."

Emily smiles. "I hope you do."

Watching them, I wonder if I've ever seen a couple so in tune with each other before. It'd be kind of corny if it was anyone else, but these two exude such a positive, authentically loving energy that I can't help but feel both a warm glow and a stab of envy. My eyes shift to Jared. He's watching the couple too, a little smile on his lips, and I wonder what he's thinking about.

As Chris said, with my thick Minnesota blood I don't think it's really that cold out. Maybe what late October in Minnesota feels like, no colder than that. Having checked the weather back home, I know it's well below zero there right now. Like double-digits below zero. The thought eases a little of the homesickness I've been feeling lately.

The girls walk just behind us, Mac holding Wednesday's leash. They're talking about TV shows they like, and Shelby tells Mac all about having recently met Nick Jonas at her friend Mylloni Abram's house.

Emily and I talk about the stark differences we've experienced in our lives, the things we've found most difficult to adjust to in L.A., and then Emily's voice trails off. She's looking ahead of us, frowning. "Look at that," she murmurs, pointing.

She's pointing at the black tire marks on the street coming from what I earlier concluded had to be Kristov and Alex's driveway. I nod. "We saw those when we arrived."

"They weren't there this morning when I went to the grocery store," she says. "I wish Kristov had come tonight. He was actually the main reason we had the barbecue." She turns to me and I can make out her worried expression in the moonlight overhead. "We'd hoped Jared could talk to him."

I don't know what to say to that, and so I say nothing. We keep walking, reaching the black marks, and Emily follows them to the driveway. The house is quiet, with a single light illuminating one window. Emily stands at the end of the driveway for a moment, and then begins walking up it toward the house.

"Emily?" I call after her. For some reason, I feel inexplicably nervous.

"Where's your mom going?" Shelby asks Mac. "Who lives here?"

"This is Alex and Kristov's house," Mac answers. "They're married like Mom and Dad, but they're both guys."

I shoot a quick look over my shoulder at Shelby. She's gaping at Mac, open-mouthed. "You mean they're gay? I've never met a gay person before."

I watch Emily, still walking up the driveway toward the house. The uneasy feeling is growing inside me, and finally I mutter, "Shelby, you and Mac stay here." Without waiting for a response, I hurry to catch up to Emily. "What are you doing?" I ask.

Emily shakes her head. "It's too quiet. Something's wrong. Kristov would've texted and said he couldn't make it for sure, but I haven't heard a word. I've called him a few times and no answer."

I shrug. "Maybe he and Alex decided to go out." I point over my shoulder. "Someone for sure did, anyway."

"Maybe. I'll just feel better if I check," Emily answers, and she ascends the stairs to the front door. When she gets to the top, she whispers, "Shit."

"What?"

Emily points at the door. "It's open. They wouldn't leave the house with the door ajar."

"Mom," Mac calls, "It's getting colder. Can Shelby and I keep walking?"

"Just a minute," I answer for Emily, who's slowly easing the door open. "We'll be right back."

"Kristov?" Emily calls out quietly. She tilts her head, listening, frowning. "Hey—Kristov?" she calls louder.

I hear it. Barely audible, coming from somewhere deep in the house, but I hear it. In an instant I'm back in Oak Creek Canyon with Shelby, building a shelter, my ears straining to pick up any sign of human presence, and when I heard one I grabbed Shelby and ran like the devils of hell were on my heels, unknowing and uncaring who it was crying out in pain, crying out for help—

I quickly push the door open and step inside. "Keep calling!" I yell, turning my head this way and that. "Keep calling so we can find you!"

A gasping cry to my right makes Emily beside me freeze. "That's Kristov," she whispers. "Oh, my God, Lanie, something's happened to him."

I hurry in the direction of the sound, and end up almost stumbling over the hunched form laying halfway in and out of a bedroom doorway.

Quickly I feel along the walls, trying to find a light switch. When I do, the hall floods with light and the man with long dark hair lying on the floor recoils from its glare.

"Holy shit!" Emily cries out and falls on her knees beside him. "Kristov? What happened?"

At first, he doesn't answer. He's trembling, and clutching at himself around the middle, his breathing coming in harsh gasps.

"My God, Kristov! What happened to you?" Emily cries. "Did Alex do this?"

Kristov attempts to speak. I kneel by his head as Emily pulls his long hair from his face. His eyes are squinted closed, against the light, against the obvious pain he's in. "Acci—accident—" he gasps out.

Emily raises her eyes to me. They're filled with tears as she shakes her head. "Lanie, can you tell how bad he's hurt?"

I stare at the man in front of me. Kristov Belneczek. The man who's caused no end of anguish for Jared and, by extension, me. I grind my teeth together, and then I swallow hard. I'm trembling uncontrollably.

"Lanie—"

I want nothing more than to walk out of this house right now. I look at Emily, a hand over her mouth and tears streaming from her eyes. I look at the man on the floor, shaking, gasping for breath, and in obvious agony.

I take a deep shuddering breath. "Kristov," I say with as much authority as I can muster, "I'm a medic, and I'm going to help you. But I need to see where you're injured."

Kristov's eyes open a crack and they roll up to meet mine. "Her—" he whispers. "You're—her—"

"Just take it easy, and move your arms away from your body," I instruct him. "Let me look at what's hurting you."

"You're—" Kristov lets out a sound that under any other circumstances I'd identify as a laugh. But he does what I ask, and together, Emily and I shift his t-shirt carefully up, over his finely toned stomach, up over his ribs, and then Emily can't conceal a gasp of horror.

Kristov's upper left torso is literally black and blue, and his abdomen on that side is distended. His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, and I can tell each breath is excruciating. "How long ago did this happen?" I ask him.

"Three—" Kristov hisses, trying to draw his arms back around himself again.

 _Three. Three hours ago? Or three o'clock?_ "I'm going to touch around here and see what's going on in there, Kristov. Okay?" Gently I press Kristov's ribs, and he gives a howl like he's being stabbed. "I'm sorry," I say as soothingly as I'm able, but my alarm is growing by the second, especially as I palpitate the upper left quadrant of his torso, where the bruising is the worst. "I'm being as gentle as I can."

"Lanie? What is it? Are his ribs broken?" Emily whispers.

I pick up Kristov's wrist with one hand, feeling for his pulse. I locate it, and with my other hand I pull my phone from my back pocket. Emily's eyes keep flitting from Kristov back to me. She's still crying.

"Emily," I say when I'm finished. "Tell the girls to go back to your house. Call Chris and tell him and Jared to get here fast." I look down at my phone, pull up the dial pad and press 911.

"What's wrong with him?" Emily cries.

I press my lips together and breathe deeply through my nose, forcing myself to remain as calm as possible. Dropping my voice to a barely audible whisper, I say, "I can't say for sure, but every sign is telling me that Kristov's spleen is ruptured, and he's bleeding internally. He has to get to a hospital as soon as possible."

"Oh, my God." Emily's face is pale and sick-looking.  She scrambles to her feet and runs for the door, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

 

***

 

Jared and Chris arrive about five minutes before the ambulance. Jared's the first one to reach Kristov, and the look on his face is one I'll never in a thousand lifetimes forget.

Nor will I ever forget his words.

"Kris—" he gasps out, dropping to his knees and cradling Kristov's head in his arms. "Oh, God...oh, my God..Kristov—" his face contorts and he begins to sob, stroking his ex-lover's hair. "Goddamn you, don't you fucking  _dare_ tell me this was another fucking accident!"

"Jared—" Kristov reaches out blindly, and Jared clutches his hand. Jared's tears fall into Kristov's dark hair, where they're absorbed and disappear. Kristov's dark eyes open and they lock on Jared's soft damp ones. He's white and trembling, his breathing rapid and shallow, and I know if he doesn't get to a hospital very soon, it'll be too late to save him. "Jared—I'm—so sorry—"

Jared sobs again and clings tighter to Kristov's hand, as if willing Kristov to absorb some of his strength, his life-force, his will. "Don't you fucking do this to me, Kris!" he wails.  _"Come on! Fight,_ goddamn you!  _Don't you fucking leave me!"_

Kristov's dark eyes are open and still locked on Jared's. With his other hand he reached up and touches Jared's face, trembling fingertips tracing over his damp cheek and his lips. And maybe it's working. Maybe Kristov is somehow absorbing something of Jared inside him, because he whispers, "Do you feel that?"

Jared draws a quivering breath and he nods, his voice cracking as he says, "Yeah, baby, I do. I really do."

In the distance I hear the sirens approaching. I slowly get to my feet. Jared doesn't appear to notice. He doesn't look up, doesn't look anywhere except at the man he's cradling in one arm, his other hand drawing Kristov's against his chest. The sirens are screaming much closer now and their blue and red lights sweep across the darkened living room, reflecting off the giant flat panel TV mounted on the wall. Then the siren cuts off abruptly, and I hear Chris and Emily speaking in frantic tones to the paramedics. As I back out of the hallway, I hear Jared whisper fiercely, "You're gonna make it. I'm not gonna let you go, baby. I promise."


	13. Jared

The surgical waiting area is so quiet that I can hear the burble of the aeration system in the enormous fish tank across the room. The fluorescent lights cast the white walls in blinding light, harsh and cold. You'd think they'd have installed something softer and warmer in a place where family and friends must spend agonizing hours awaiting news about their loved ones.

I haven't moved from my chair nearest the double doors emblazoned with the words SURGERY: NO ADMITTANCE. MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY. Except with every footstep, every slightest movement, I pull my eyes from staring unseeingly at the floor between my feet and lift my head, hopeful that it's someone with word on Kristov's condition.

He's been in there for over two hours. The seconds tick by with maddening slowness, impervious to the endless silence blanketing the room. No one has spoken or even really moved in the last hour.

Directly across from me, Chris and Emily sit close together on a small couch. Emily's eyes are red-rimmed and damp, and she clutches a wad of tissues in one hand. Chris's arm is around her, and his openly friendly face is pinched with pain, his attention wholly focused on his weeping wife.

I'm dimly aware that I need to piss. But I don't get up. I've convinced myself that if I leave this waiting room, the surgeon will step through those imposing double doors. I have to be here when that happens, not doing something so stupidly unimportant as taking a leak.

Lanie left about forty-five minutes ago. During the brief time she was here she spoke mostly to Chris and Emily, something about having brought the girls from the Pine's house to the compound, and Jimmy's looking after them until she returns. She sat next to me for awhile, but we didn't speak. I felt her gaze on me though, and at one point she took my hand and held it for a little while. I tried to squeeze her hand back, but my fingers just wouldn't work. I'm numb, so numb, a paralysis that consumed me after that brief and yet endless ambulance ride to Glendale Memorial Hospital.

 

***

 

No one questioned my decision to ride in the ambulance. For me, it was just something I did automatically. I wasn't about to let Kristov out of my sight until I had to. I remember the blurred shape of Lanie running out of the house, past the ambulance and down the driveway in the direction of the Pine's, and Chris saying something about he and Emily meeting me at the hospital. But once the doors slammed closed and the siren began shrieking as the ambulance began to move, my attention was completely focused on Kristov. I hadn't let go of his hand, and I was still urging him to hang on.

I knew it was bad. Very bad. Emily's frantic phone call to Chris, the look in Lanie's eyes when I skidded into the hallway and saw Kristov laying there in a crumpled heap, seeing the horrific bruising and swelling around his ribs and abdomen—I knew. And the only thing that could touch my terror was an explosive, consuming rage inside me. Alex had been smart to take off. If he'd been there, I'd have taken extraordinary pleasure in tearing him apart.

During the short trip to Glendale Memorial Hospital, the ambulance racing down the winding residential streets of Los Feliz, Kristov's deep brown eyes met and fixed on mine. "Jared," he whispered.

It was the first time he'd spoken since asking  _do you feel that?_  There'd been no need to ask what he meant. It was inside me, racing, shooting throughout my body and into my fingers that were wrapped around his. I could only pray he was taking it into himself as freely as I was giving it.

"Shhhh." I smoothed Kristov's long silky black hair away from his face with one hand, the other giving his a gentle squeeze. That powerful feeling was still there, tingling between our entwined fingers. "You're gonna be okay," I whispered. "Just hang in there."

Squeezing my hand, Kristov managed to smile. "Jared...remember when we...we spent...the weekend...in that villa...in Italy? "

"Yeah." I continued stroking his hair and smiled. My eyes burned and I blinked quickly. "It was just outside of Anzia. I remember every minute of that weekend."

"It was...so beautiful there," Kristov murmured. "That little...cottage...was..falling apart...and you were...so angry about it. You...wanted...to be moved...to a new one...and your money back."

I smiled at the memory. "It was a dilapidated shack. But you told me to open my eyes, and see the beauty in the imperfections because it was ours, even if only for those few days." I twirled a strand of Kristov's hair around my finger and sniffled wetly. "You were right."

Kristov weakly drew my hand to his lips like he had that day on his balcony. His gaze began to grow hazy and unfocused. "I remember...our final night there...we made...love...and...I told you...that..the last thing...I ever want to...see in this world...is your angelic face...your...beautiful...blue eyes..." His eyes squeezed shut then, and he sucked in a short hiss of breath.

It took monumental effort to speak, but I forced the words past the rock lodged in my throat. My voice broke as I said, "Baby, you're not going to die. Not tonight. Not for a long time."

Kristov's eyes opened again. Moisture welled in them as he gazed at me again. I kept holding his hand and stroking his hair. The paramedic was standing just on the other side of Kristov, applying a blood pressure cuff to Kristov's free arm. But he could have been vapor for all I cared. I learned forward and placed a soft, lingering kiss on Kristov's mouth.

His lips were warm, pliant and soft under mine as he kissed me back. In that kiss was everything I remembered, and a flood of feelings rushed through me. In those few seconds, eight long years dissolved into dust.

I pulled back a little so I could see his eyes again, and the look in them sent me to the verge of an uncontrollable emotional outburst. My vision swam, and Kristov's eyes became a wet blur of dark brown and white. I swallowed hard and said, "You're strong, Kristov, you're a fighter, and  _you're not going to die."_

Kristov's eyes sharpened, and then they glowed with warmth. "You're the...strong one...my Jared. You...always were...the strong one." He closed his eyes then and let out a little breath. A single tear glimmered under his thick black lashes.

Agonized terror clutched at my heart. "Kristov—" my hand left his hair and I grasped his shoulder, giving it a shake.  _"Kris,"_  I said louder. When he still didn't stir, something inside me began to scream, but I couldn't breathe, my chest wouldn't move, my throat wouldn't let a single sound escape.

The attending paramedic sprang into action, giving me a none-too-gentle shove out of his way. He bent over Kristov's still body. I covered my face with my hands, finding my voice at last as an inhuman-sounding wail tore from the depths of me.

"Patient has lost consciousness!" the paramedic yelled at the driver as I continued to scream. "He's in severe hypovolemic shock! You really gotta move it, Kevin!"

 

***

 

The residual terror is still bubbling in me, though it has finally let go its vicious grip in my chest. I'm still weak and drained by the horror of those awful minutes in the ambulance when I thought I'd lost Kristov. Upon arriving at the hospital, an awaiting team had surrounded him instantly, babbling medical terms that made my head swim. Completely irrational and out of my mind with panic, I refused to let go of Kristov. They'd had to physically pull me away to whisk him into emergency surgery.

I sense eyes on me and I look up. Emily's head is resting against Chris's shoulder but she's gazing across the room at me. When our eyes meet she offers a small, encouraging smile. The one I offer in return feels more like a twisted grimace.

"How long have you known about it?" I speak the words quietly, but my voice still seems jarring in the heavy stillness. "About Alex beating on Kristov, I mean."

Emily replies, "I've suspected for a few months, and I've tried to talk to Kristov about it. The night of the cookout, after everyone else had left and you and Chris were in the house. He denied it like always. But like I told him—" she glances up at Chris— "I know the signs."

Chris rubs her shoulder, his expression pained. Something about that and the haunted look in Emily's eyes make me realize that she must have lived this same nightmare at one time in her life. I want to ask her about it, but it seems wrong to ask those kinds of questions. She's in a fragile emotional state right now. Discovering Kristov like she did must have affected her very deeply.

"You might have saved his life," I say instead. "If you hadn't gone to his house to check on him—" I can't finish the sentence. I can't even complete the thought in my head. I hunch forward, my elbows on my knees, and bury my face in my hands. "What the hell is taking so long?" I mumble. "Why the fuck haven't we  _heard_  anything yet?"

There's movement, a settling in the seat next to me, and then a hand on my back. "He's going to be okay, Jared."

I lower my hands and look at Emily. She offers me a tremulous but sweet smile and her hand on my back rubs in a little circle. "He's strong. He's had to be, and there's a whole lot of fight left in him."

"Yeah," I croak, and swipe at my face with the heel of my hand. "I told him that in the ambulance. He said no, that was me. But I don't think so." I give a shaky laugh. "At least I sure don't feel very strong right now."

Emily reaches for a box on the table next to her and hands me a tissue. I dab my eyes, wipe my dripping nose and crumple the tissue in my hand. I glance around the room, looking at everything and nothing all at the same time.

Emily studies me, gnawing at her bottom lip before she clears her throat. "Jared—" she begins, and then stops. Her face and voice are both hesitant. Then she continues, a bit tentatively, "I really don't know how to ask this or if I even  _should_  ask this, but—you and Kristov—?"

Involuntarily I jerk, startled from the blanketing fog of inertia. Emily's clear blue eyes are shot through with red, but they're steadily searching me. Something in them, and something inside  _me,_  that something knifing through the stewing swirl of emotions I'm fighting to contain, knows this isn't the time and place for denials, evasive answers and subterfuge. There's no point to any of that anymore.

Feeling horribly vulnerable and exposed, I drop my gaze to the floor, and my one-word answer falls from my mouth like a hot stone."Yes."

There's no outward reaction to my confession. I slowly look up and meet Emily's eyes again. In them there's no judgment. There's no real shock either—at most, there's maybe a faint glimmer of surprise. Mostly, there's caring and concern. In an odd way that only makes everything worse.

"When?" she asks softly.

My voice cracks as I answer, "Eight years ago."

Chris rises and comes over, sitting on the other side of Emily. "It's okay, Jared," he murmurs. His expression is one of complete understanding. "I can assure you that nothing will leave this room."

I nod, though this point I honestly couldn't care less."How—how did you know?" I ask Emily weakly.

"At the cookout," she answers. "When I asked how you'd met, and the way you answered me." She smiles. "And the way you and Kristov looked at each other." She rubs my back in that circular motion again. "Kristov isn't the only one who wears his heart on his sleeve, you know."

"Jesus Christ." I lean forward and rub my temples. "It was that obvious?"

"Maybe not to everyone who was there, but I'm intuitive and very observant." She takes a deep breath, pulls her hand away and folds them in her lap. "Lanie knows, doesn't she?"

"Yeah. I told her some time ago."

She nods, a flicker of something crossing her face. "I guessed as much. And it's clear that Alex knows, too. That night it was plain that he knew."

I suck in a hiss of air and close my eyes at the mention of Alex's name. "God, what I wouldn't give to know where he is right now. That bastard would wish he'd never been born." My fists and my teeth both clench, fresh tears and rage boiling just under the surface.

"Don't think about him right now," Chris says. "Focus on Kristov, Jared. Not on that abusive piece of shit. Kristov needs you. Let the police deal with Alex."

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and sigh heavily. "I just can't stop thinking that Alex did this to Kristov because of me."

"We don't know that," Chris says. "Alex is jealous on a neurotic level. Jealous, insecure, and possessive as fuck. Any guy that comes near Kristov he views as a threat. Guys don't get much straighter than me, and Alex was even that way with me at first." He pauses and adds, "Did you know that Kristov's going to be the lead model in a Ralph Lauren TV ad?"

"He told me about that," I say. "They're supposed to start shooting in two weeks. He was really stoked about it."

Chris nods. "Yeah well, Alex was having a meltdown over it because this ad's pretty risque. It kind of pushes the homoerotic envelope and it features a couple of male models with him. So you don't know that this was about you."

Yes, it could've been the upcoming commercial, it could've been anyone or anything, but it wasn't. I'm positive it wasn't.

Silence falls in the waiting room again. I go back to studying the floor. Chris and Emily stay seated by me, but Chris wraps his arm around his wife again and she rests her head on his shoulder. And so the minutes continue to tick by.

It's just after ten-thirty when a tired-looking, middle-aged blonde woman steps into the waiting room. She's wearing blue scrubs under a white coat, the requisite stethoscope hooked around her neck, and I recognize her as the doctor who'd taken charge of Kristov the instant we arrived. "Good evening," she greets us. "I'm Dr. April Lindsey, Mr. Belneczek's surgeon."

I sit up ramrod straight, my back giving a little yelp of protest against the sudden movement. My heart gives a lurch, and then begins to thud painfully in my chest. This is the moment I've been sitting in agonizing wait for, but now that the moment is here, my tongue seems frozen and words refuse to come.

Chris and Emily sit up, too, and Emily is the first to speak. "Is Kristov okay?" she asks anxiously.

Dr. Lindsey nods and says, "The surgery was difficult but it was a successful one, and Kristov has been taken to recovery."

"Oh." The word gusts out of me as a wave of relief carries me so high I feel faint. I collapse back into my chair, breathing deeply for what seems like the first time in hours. My heart's frantic rhythm eases a bit.

Chris asks, "How bad was it?"

Dr. Lindsey says, "Kristov's injuries were extensive. They were a result of multiple blows of tremendous force. Two shattered ribs, a tear in his liver. His spleen was essentially blown open from the impacts and had to be removed."

"Oh, my God," I whisper. Horror crawls up my spine, and I feel as though I'm drowning again in a fresh surge of pure rage. Emily reaches over and rubs my back again.

"As a result of these injuries, the internal bleeding was severe," Dr. Lindsey continues. Her weary eyes scan over the three of us. "And we're in short supply of his blood type. We're giving him what we have, but there's a chance we'll need more before he's completely out of the woods. Are any of you three either type A-negative or O-negative?"

I find my voice again. "I'm A-negative."

"And I'm O-negative," Chris puts in. "Angel, you're A-positive, aren't you?"

"B-positive," Emily answers. "And so I can't donate. I wish I could."

"The two of you will be enough for now," Dr. Lindsey assures us. "If you'll come with me, I'll take you two down to the lab to get started immediately."

"But Kristov's going to be okay, right?" I ask as Chris and I get to our feet and hurry to join her.

In the doorway of the waiting room, the doctor pauses and turns to me. Her blonde ponytail swings side to side with the movement. "While the surgery was a difficult one, everything went well, he's stable, and at this time I have no reason to believe he won't make a full recovery."

"Thank God," I whisper, my voice trembling. Chris drapes a strong arm around me.

"By the time you've finished donating, he should be moved to a room." Dr. Lindsey starts walking down the hall, and Chris and I follow behind her. "And you'll be able to see him then if you wish."

Chris, walking by my side, shifts his arm and gives me a pat on the back. "Of course I do," I murmur. "Thanks, Doc."

The doctor looks over her shoulder at me and gives me a crooked smile. "You're welcome, Mr. Leto.

Chris and I are rushed through all of the preliminary procedures and we answer the questions and sign our names on forms neither of us bother reading first. I barely smell the sharp odor of antiseptic or feel the burning sting of the needle as it slips into the thick vein in the crook of my arm. I lean back in the semi-reclining chair I've been placed in and I close my eyes, filled with weariness, emotional overload, and overwhelming relief that Kristov survived the surgery and, by all indications, is going to be okay.

With that paralyzing numbness now finally beginning to slip away, I can think again. But with everything in me, I wish I couldn't. I wish I could crawl back into that cocoon where I could shove everything aside because I was so singularly focused that I couldn't deal with anything other than Kristov's survival. I pushed everything else into faraway corners of my mind where they couldn't bother me.

But now the world is insisting on crashing back in, reality coming at me from all sides. And I'm not ready or able to answer all of the questions now spinning around in my head and screaming at me for answers.

There's the one primary question, the one that summarizes it all, really—what the hell am I going to do now?

The only answer I have is simple—I have no fucking idea.

The weight of everything is still on my shoulders when I'm disconnected from the needle, a band-aid is applied. Chris has gone to the waiting room to get Emily, and a nurse arrives in the lab to take me to Kristov's room.

It's shortly before midnight, and the hospital is quiet. At the nearby nurse's station, a man with short blonde hair and dressed in dark blue scrubs sits typing on a computer. Down the hall I can hear a television faintly echoing out into the hallway from a patient's room.

"Mr. Belneczek is still heavily sedated," the nurse informs me outside Kristov's door. "Dr. Lindsey said you can stay as long as you like, though." She gives me a kind of conspiratorial smile, and I sense it's my status that's afforded me the privilege. "I'll be in and out through the night. Don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," I say, and I step into Kristov's room. The curtain around his bed is drawn closed. I pull it back and stand still for a moment, just looking at him. Behind me, the nurse's soft footsteps fade away as she goes down the hall.

Kristov is still deathly pale, except for faint purple shadows darkening the skin under his closed eyes. His face is reposed and peaceful, his lips slightly parted. His long hair is gathered neatly behind his head. An IV tube snakes from a pole to the needle seated in his right hand. His left hand lays at his side.

I sit in the chair at the left side of his bed, slip my hand through the gap in the side rail and entwine my fingers in his. His skin is cool and dry as I rub my thumb lightly over the palm. After a little while I move to the inner part of his wrist. I press in a little and feel his strong, steady pulse. I rest my thumb there for a long time, awash in every possible emotion. They're all so intense and overwhelming that I can't begin to sort them out.

I wonder if Lanie did this when she sat by my side after the surgery to repair my broken leg. Did she sit there with me, watching me, willing her healing energy into my limp body? Did she hold my hand, and then move her thumb so she could feel my pulse under it? If she did, was there this same resonating sense of connection, this flood of feelings that she didn't know what to do with?

The chair I'm in reclines and there's a folded blanket on the back of it. I let go of Kristov's hand only long enough to pull the blanket down, unfold it, and drape it over myself. Then, knowing I'll be paying dearly for it in the morning, I recline the chair about halfway and take Kristov's hand in mine again. With my other hand, I fish my phone out of my pocket and compose a text message.

_Kristov's out of surgery. Needed blood transfusions. They're short on his type & I'm a match. Staying in case they need me to donate more._

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes with Lanie's reply.

_I see. Thanks for letting me know. I'm glad he made it through surgery. Keep me posted._

A few more minutes go by and my phone vibrates again.

_Happy New Year._

There's a soft tap at the door. I set my phone on the bedside table on the other side of my chair. Soft footsteps, and the curtain moves. It's Chris and Emily.

"The nurse said we could come in and see him," Chris says, glancing at Kristov, and then back at me. "She said you're staying?"

I indicate the blanket thrown over me. "Yeah, I am."

Emily steps a little closer. "Good. I know Kristov will be happy to see you here with him when he wakes up." She offers a smile, and then says, "Lanie said Mac can stay the night with Shelby, so we're going to go home."

"Okay," I say. I disengage my hand from Kristov's, throw the blanket aside, and get to my feet. "Thanks for keeping me sane," I murmur, enveloping them both in a hug at the same time. I pull back a little and look at Emily, suddenly remembering something. "Earlier tonight when we were cleaning up the dishes, Chris told me New Year's Eve is your engagement anniversary."

Emily's smile is steady, as is her gaze. "Yeah, it is." She looks up at Chris beside her, and then she looks beyond me to Kristov. She sighs and says, "I'd almost forgotten."

My sigh echoes hers. "This has been a hell of a way to spend it. I want you two to go home, salvage what you can of your special night, and I'll talk to you guys tomorrow." I hug them both again.

When they're gone, I go back to my chair, recline it again, and settle back in under the blanket. I pick up my phone and tap out a reply.

_Same to you. Talk in the a.m. XO_

I shut off my phone, put it away and I take Kristov's hand in mine again. My eyes close, and my mind drifts slowly toward a fitful sleep full of odd, fragmented dreams and startled half-awakenings. But despite my restlessness, I don't let go of Kristov's hand.

 


	14. Jared

The first streaks of morning sunlight cast a golden eldritch glow across Kristov's bed and my blanket-covered legs, which are propped up on the reclining chair footrest. Those sunbeams are what awakened me and I blink a few times, re-orienting myself to my surroundings.

I shift a little and my back groans loudly at the ill treatment it's suffered from hours in an awkward and unaligned position. My body aches, I have to piss, and my right hand is tingling almost to the point of numbness because Kristov's squeezing it so hard.

_Kristov's squeezing my hand._

I turn quickly to look at him, so quickly my neck bones give a resounding pop. Kristov's head is turned toward me. He's wide awake and despite the amount of pain he must be in after having just gone through major surgery, his eyes are bright and so is his smile.

"Kris—" my voice is a feeble, gravelly croak. I attempt to drop the footrest to bring my chair upright by raising and dropping both legs against it, but the chair won't budge. "Shit," I mumble. Amazingly, Kristov chuckles, a soft low rumble in his chest, and he lets go of my hand.

I pull my arm back through the side rail and grasp the arms of the chair, giving the footrest another hard kick with both of my heels. The footrest finally gives way and I jerk up into a sitting position. My back screams as a flare of agony shoots through it.

Ignoring the pain in my lower lumbar, I leap to my feet and lean over Kristov's bed, taking his hand again and peering down at him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. His skin is warmer than it was, and though he's still pale on a sickly level, he already looks so much better and healthier I can hardly believe it. "Are you in pain?" I ask, my voice clearer now. What a dumb thing to say—of course he's in pain. "Do you need anything?" That's a little better, I guess.

"I'm all right." His voice is weak and hoarse, as if he has a sore throat. "The nurse was just here." He glances at the chair behind me. "You stayed here all night."

"Yeah, I did." I continue stroking his hair.

Kristov's brow furrows slightly. "Why?"

I squeeze his hand. "Because I wasn't going anywhere until I knew you were going to be okay."

Kristov's throat bobs as he swallows, grimacing a little. "You didn't have to."

"Actually, yes I did. But more than that, I wanted to."

Kristov smiles again. It's a gentle smile. If he wasn't lying here in a hospital bed, tubes running in and out of him from various places, I'd be hard-pressed to believe anything had happened to him at all. His long dark hair is loose around his shoulders, framing his expressive, deep brown eyes that bore into me as he asks, "Didn't you worry that it would look suspicious?"

"Why would it look suspicious? I stayed all night at the hospital with a friend who'd been beaten nearly to death." 

Kristov's smile fades, and a shadow crosses over it. "Alex," he murmurs. "Has there been any word from him?"

My hand in Kristov's tightens involuntarily, and I grip the side rail with the other. "No."

Kristov closes his eyes briefly. With a sigh he murmurs, "I have to talk to him."

I stare down at him. "There's only one thing you need to talk to him about, and that's a divorce."

Kristov's eyes fly back to mine, wide and alarmed. "Jared—"

"How many times has this happened, Kris? How many times has he beaten you?" My teeth clench together tightly. "This time he almost killed you. If you—"

"Jared." Kristov's voice is soft. "Alex was upset. I upset him. If I hadn't—"

"Stop it." My voice is a low hiss. "I don't give a fuck what you think you did to deserve this—and you, taking this abuse when I know goddamn well you're capable of defending yourself—" I pause and rub my eyes, willing away the onslaught of tears brought out by sheer frustration and anger. "What the fuck has he  _done_  to you, Kris?"

"He's not all bad," Kristov protests, his eyes pleading. "He lashes out because he's afraid to lose me. He loves me, Jared. And he's  _proud_  to love me. And sometimes—sometimes I've failed to appreciate that." He pulls in his lower lip and sucks on it.

"Apprec—" I start to say, but I'm so blown away by Kristov's matter-of-fact martyrdom that I can't continue for a moment. Finally, I take a deep breath, willing myself to speak calmly, rationally, and for the love of God, get through to him somehow. "You really think he loves you." I indicate his prone body in the bed and the tubes running everywhere. "Is this  _love?"_

"In his office at work he has pictures of us together. Some of them were taken on our wedding day. One is of our first kiss as husbands." Kristov's eyes well up with tears, but they don't leave mine. In their depths a tempest of emotions swirl as he whispers, each word stabbing me deep in the gut and twisting, "I've never had to be his dirty little secret."

 

***

 

A while later, after relieving my screaming bladder in Kristov's bathroom and washing my hands and face, I sit back in the chair where I'd spent the night and pick up my phone. I turn it on and let the missed calls, voicemails and messages load in a rapid series of buzzes and pings. Most of the texts are Happy New Year messages from friends and business associates. 

Kristov turns his head and looks through the side rail at me. "Holy shit," he comments with a little smirk.

"Yeah," I sigh and run my free hand through my tangled hair. "Same old, same old. Never a moment's peace."

"I remember," Kristov nods against his pillow. "But Jared, you should be attending to your work, not sitting in a hospital room with me."

"Don't worry about it," I reply as I begin the first of many texts of the morning. "I'll do what I want to do."

"Mmm. I hope one of those texts is to Lanie."

I lift my eyes from my phone. I'm midway through a text to Lanie, in fact. "Why?" I ask.

"You weren't with her on New Year's Eve," Kristov answers. "It seems like women have a thing about being with their men on holidays like that. The kiss at midnight when the ball drops." He pauses. "Instead, you kissed me."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. I turn back to my phone and continue tapping out the text message. "It wasn't midnight yet," I mumble. "Anyway, I didn't think you remembered that."

"I remember everything, from the moment you came to my house, until I passed out in the ambulance."

I look up from my phone again. "For a minute I thought you'd died."

Kristov's voice is soft, with an almost shy lilt to it. "When you kissed me, I thought I'd died, too."

My fingers clutching my phone tighten, and I completely lose my train of thought with the text I'm trying to write. A thick silence descends, filling up the room with its weight.

I know I should reply with something as poetic as Kristov, but I simply can't come up with anything. Instead, I chew my bottom lip and regain my thoughts, finishing off the text to Lanie. It's still quite early in the morning, but I know she's up.

_Kristov is awake. Transfusions working. I'll be home in a few hrs & would like to sit down w/ you & talk about stuff...the tabloids & Kristov & everything if ur up for it._

As I compose the next text, this one to Jimmy with a set of clear instructions, I wonder what Kristov will do or say when he realizes what I'm doing. It's for his own good, even if he doesn't realize it yet. Even if he objects long and loud at my interference, and I'm certain he'll see it as just that. But tough shit. It's not like he can really put up much argument in his condition.

The Wilshire office is closed for New Year's Day, so at least that's one set of people I don't need to deal with. So is my attorney Oliver Hatch's office. Ditto my publicist Karen Hale, and my agent Josh Lieberman.  I text my mother, Shannon, Tomo, and Stevie. I refrain from telling them where I am and what happened, opting instead to simply wish them all a Happy New Year. 

Lanie's reply comes in just as I finish my text to Stevie.

_Yes. I think it's long overdue. I'll see u when u get here._

The hospital staff is less than thrilled to learn I've arranged for Kristov to have a personal security detail, but I refuse to budge. I don't mind using my celebrity to get things done when necessary, and by noon Jimmy's installed and I feel like I can breathe a little easier, and can maybe go home for a little while. To leave otherwise is unthinkable. As far as I know the police haven't located Alex yet, and until I know they have him in custody, I'm taking no chances. Every instinct tells me that Alex will surface, and soon.

It's not that I think Alex will do anything to Kristov physically—I'm quite sure even he wouldn't be that reckless—but it's obvious he can do a number on Kristov mentally. He already has. And I'll be damned if I'll let Alex manipulate him anymore. Not if I can help it.

I soon find out that my instincts are dead on. Just as Kristov is finishing whatever passes for his lunch—clear liquids, which he only drinks at my insistence, through a straw and making a sour face the entire time—my phone rings.

"Jared," Emily's voice is tight. "Alex was just here at the house."

I glance quickly at Kristov. "Oh?" I ask, deliberately keeping my voice light. "Is the situation urgent?"

Emily picks up on the fact that I can't speak freely. "Ahh, there's ears, I take it. Okay. Alex knows that the cops and an ambulance were at his house last night. Apparently a neighbor told him we were there. They might have seen you, too, because Alex asked where you were."

"I see."

"Anyway, he claims he ran inside and found their bedroom ransacked, Kristov's phone smashed to pieces. He wanted to know where they took Kristov, that we must have some idea since we were there. We played dumb and he got hostile, saying as Kristov's husband he has the right to know. So he's already spouting his lawyer bullshit."

"Mmhmm." Kristov's watching me, so I concentrate on keeping both my face and voice neutral. "Have you notified anyone else of this development?"

"Yeah. I just got off the phone with the police. But I don't know where Alex is now. Glendale Memorial is the closest hospital, I'm sure Alex has done the math, so it's only a matter of time before he shows up there. Hold on a sec." Emily murmurs something. I hear Chris in the background, and then she comes back on the phone, saying, "We were planning to come down to the hospital in a little while, but I wanted to give you a heads-up right away."

"That sounds promising," I say, my tone still light but business-like. I pace around the room in a circle, and then hurry to Kristov's side again as he fumbles for a plastic mug on his tray with a straw sticking out of it. Holding it so he can drink, I continue, "I've got someone in place who's prepared to step in should negotiations turn difficult on that end, but I appreciate the advance notice. However, considering your interest in the matter, I'd be grateful for your assistance in finding a long-term resolution. If both you and your partner are available, this situation would be best addressed immediately."

"You got it," Emily says. "We're on our way. We'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"Perfect. I suggest using a back-channel method of approach."

"Understood," Emily says. "One of us will text when we get there."

"Talk soon," I say, and end the call.

Kristov looks up at me. "That sounded important." He pushes the cup away. "God, this tea is terrible."

"It's a delicate situation I'm in the middle of," I reply casually. "It'll get handled."

Kristov smiles. "I always enjoyed watching and hearing you make deals. With one or two phone calls you could move mountains. You certainly know how to get things done, no matter how difficult the situation." He reaches for another plastic cup, this time the one with water in it, and I hold it for him so he can drink.

"Not long after we first met, you were going through that lawsuit with the record company," Kristov reminisces when he's finished. "That nightmare would've broken a lesser man. It burdened you, at times I worried you actually would have a breakdown, but you kept on going, kept on fighting."

"It was rough," I sigh, remembering that hellishly long stretch of dark days. "Felt like I aged ten years in one."

"You stood up for yourself. You stood up for what was right, and you won."

I shake my head, smiling grimly. "No. Just because I didn't have to pay them thirty million bucks doesn't mean I won, Kristov. I  _settled."_

"You got a new record deal, and you got it on your terms. It wasn't perfect, but you could look in the mirror and respect yourself. You stood up on principle, and in that, you won." He studies me. "Then you released  _Artifact_ and educated the world. Plus you scared the shit out of the old-school bastards running the big labels." He chuckles. "God, that was brilliant. And the public clearly agreed—you won Best Documentary at the 2012 Toronto Film Festival."

I've received plenty of accolades for making and releasing  _Artifact,_  including from many people in the entertainment business. But Kristov's praise gives me a different kind of warm glowing feeling all over. Maybe because it proves he followed my career long after our relationship ended.

Kristov's doctor arrives to examine him, and I take that opportunity to go for a walk and make some phone calls. At this time of day the floor is busy, with nurses and other medical staff scurrying from room to room, the overhead speaker paging personnel to different areas of the hospital. I dial Shannon's number and wait for him to pick up, keeping a watchful eye on the elevator bank in front of me, and glancing back at Jimmy who's lounging in a comfortable looking chair outside Kristov's door.

When Shannon picks up, I get straight to the point without letting him fill me in on his Tahoe ski trip with Ashley and her parents. "You get my text?" I ask him. "I hadn't heard from you since you got to Tahoe and figured I should call and make sure you haven't wrapped yourself around a tree."

Shannon sounds either sleepy or hung over. "Nah, I haven't even really looked at my phone yet. What is it?" He yawns loudly.

I give him the briefest run-down I can manage, starting with the tabloid article Lanie found, and ending with where I am now—at the hospital with Kristov. I don't pause long enough to give him a chance to speak, and when I finish, there's nothing but silence. "Shannon?" I ask, wondering if I've lost the connection.

"Holy shit," he finally says. "What's Kristov going to do?"

"I have no idea. I'm afraid he's going to go back to the sonofabitch unless we can talk him out of it."

Another silence. Then Shannon clears his throat and says, "You sure you want to get involved in this? I mean—it sounds like a fucked up situation all the way around, and you and Kristov—whatever it was you had—that ended a long time ago. What's your interest in it, or in him now?"

I run my fingers through my hair and sigh heavily. "Honestly, I don't know. He's a friend. He was a friend before, too, until—you know. I'd like that friendship back, and as a friend I want him to get out of that nightmare. I'm willing to help him, if he'll allow me to."

Shannon says, "What's Lanie think about all this? It's gotta be a little weird for her, isn't it? I mean—"

"There's nothing to get weird about." I've almost reached the elevator bank. "Lanie's not the type of woman to get bent out of shape because I'm helping a friend stay safe, Shannon."

"No, but it's more complicated than that. You're suggesting bringing Kristov who isn't only a friend, but your ex-lover, to stay at your place." He sighs. "I can't see any woman, even Lanie, being completely okay with that."

"I'm going to talk to her," I say. "I'm going home pretty soon and we're going to sit down and talk out everything. Shit's been pretty fucking rocky between us lately, and it's time we cleared the air. I'll talk to her, and make her understand this is something I have to do."

"Sounds like you've already made your decision," Shannon says. "Did you want my approval or just an ear to bend?"

"Both," I say honestly.

"Well, let me ask you something." A hesitation, and then he mumbles, "God, this is awkward as hell."

"What? Just spit it out."

"Are you still attracted to Kristov? I mean, do you feel anything other than friendship toward him? Like...you know...sexually?"

The silence on the phone is louder than if I were to scream at him. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and first finger and exhale a long sigh.

"Okay, I'll take that as a yes. Shit, bro—"

"No. I mean, the answer is both yes and no."

"Well, that clears it right the fuck up, doesn't it."

"I don't know. I mean, I think it's just the situation he's in right now. Emotions and shit are running high." My phone buzzes and I pull it away to look at it. It's an incoming text from Emily.

_We're here. And so is Alex. Saw his car coming around the corner half a block away. He's looking for a parking spot now. IDK if he followed us or if he figured out K is here._

I put my phone back to my ear. "Listen, Shannon, I have to go. I'll call you later." Without waiting for a response, I end the call and hurry back to Jimmy, keeping vigil outside Kristov's closed door and looking at something on his phone.

"Jimmy," I keep my voice low. "The sonofabitch is here."

Jimmy's bald head pops up, instantly alert. He gets to his feet, pocketing his phone and looking around. "Where?"

"Outside. Come on. Maybe we can intercept him before he gets in here." I start back toward the elevators, Jimmy taking his place at my side.

As I walk, I text Emily back.

_Call 911!_

Emily's text is immediate.  _Already done._

I text back,  _my chief of security is w/ me. On our way down. Don't let him go anywhere. Stall him if you have to._

Med-Surg is on the fourth level of the hospital, and the elevator takes its time reaching our floor. I tap my foot impatiently, chewing my bottom lip so hard it throbs.

Beside me, Jimmy glances at me. "How do you want to play this?"

I look up at the big man. "We have to keep him busy until the cops show up."

The elevator finally opens and we step inside. It's a silent ride down to the first floor, my thoughts filled with apprehension. I can only hope the cops arrive before this comes to blows.

God, I loathe physical confrontations. Before my back went to hell and I shattered my leg, I was decent enough in a fight, though I never have been the brawler Shannon can be. Now, handicapped by a still-healing leg and a fucked up back, I don't relish the idea of putting my physical prowess up against a younger and bigger man—especially an angry, jealous husband gunning for a fight. Considering what Alex has done to Kristov, the man he's supposed to love, I don't expect him to demonstrate much physical restraint with me of all people.

I'm quite sure Alex wouldn't dare move against Emily. At least not with Chris there. I suspect Chris intimidates him, certainly more than I do. I wish Shannon was here. But I have Jimmy, and Jimmy's imposing size alone would scare the bejesus out of anyone.

Stepping outside into the early afternoon sunlight, I spot them immediately. In the lot halfway to the hospital's parking ramp, Alex stands facing Emily and Chris. Even from this distance I can tell he's agitated. His face is furrowed, and he's gesticulating wildly to emphasize words I can't hear.

"Okay, come on," I mutter to Jimmy. "But don't step in unless you have to." I step around a parked car and head in their direction. Alex is in profile to me, still talking, still gesturing, and he hasn't noticed my approach. As I watch, Alex turns in my direction toward the hospital entrance, but he's looking over his shoulder at Chris, who's put a restraining hand on his arm.

I'm close enough to hear them now, to hear Emily's acidic tone as she says, "You're a fucking liar, Alex." She steps around Chris and stands in front of Alex, hands on her hips, her back to me. Her Texas twang is on full display as she continues, "You were lyin' at our house and you're lyin' now. It was  _you_  who did this, and I'll be damned if you'll  _ever_  lay a hand on Kristov again!"

Admiration at Emily's feistiness combines with alarm at the expression on Alex's face when he looks down at her. His face is red and growing redder, the face of a man who's at the brink of explosion. Chris is aware of it, too, I can tell by the way he steps forward, ready to defend his wife from an oncoming attack.

"How dare you," Alex seethes, his eyes narrowing. His nostrils flare and he takes a step toward Emily, who stands her ground. "How  _dare_  either of you accuse me of hurting my own husband!" His hands clench into fists, and I know he's on the verge of losing it. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

I decide the time has come to join in. Stepping around a parked mini-van and into Alex's view, Jimmy right on my heels and prepared to step in himself, I say, "You're not going near him, Alex."

 _"You,"_  Alex hisses, his eyes burning as he stares at me. They dart to Jimmy and I see a quick flash of something in them that I hope is fear. He fixes me with an enraged look again, his face darkening further. "I should've known. It's  _always_ you." He points a finger in my face, shrugging off Chris's restraining hand, stepping around Emily. "Fuck you, Leto. Just fucking butt out. This has nothing to do with you—" his furious gaze sweeps around to Chris and Emily before returning to pin itself on me— "and as for  _you_ —you had your shot with Kristov. But you just couldn't make up your mind between him and pussy, could you?" He laughs sharply and continues, "And now what? You think you can just waltz back into his life? Kristov is my  _husband_. You got that, you little prick?  _He's my husband!"_

"Not for long," I reply evenly. "Your ass is going to jail, and Kristov's divorcing you. If you so much as breathe in his direction again, I'll make you wish you hadn't."

Alex flinches at the word 'divorce', but quickly recovers himself. He tosses his head and throws a glare at Jimmy, standing silently but poised to take action if Alex so much as raises a hand at any of us. When his eyes return to me, an eerie feeling admittedly fills me, and I can almost understand how he has managed to intimidate Kristov. His eyes glow like hot metal. They're the eyes of a man who knows he's backed into a corner and ready to fight his way out of it. But I also detect the slightest bit of unease in them, a vulnerable spot he's desperate to conceal under his self-confident swagger.

"You know, you sure talk a big game for someone who can't move without a bodyguard," Alex sneers. "And it seems to me you might be seeing the inside of a cell yourself before long." Alex gives a mocking laugh and takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us another couple of feet. Beside me, Jimmy tenses as Alex jabs a finger at me again. "Oh, yeah. You're pretty self-righteous for a closeted little bastard who gets his kicks in the back room of Garrity's—that is, when he's not messing around with underage girls."

Alex's triumphant smirk is the only thing that cuts through a hazy red blanket that covers my vision. Then the smirk vanishes as my right hook connects with his jaw. It's not the satisfyingly hard punch I was going for—it doesn't knock him off his feet—but he staggers back a few steps before recovering himself. He faces me again with a self-satisfied grin, rubbing his jaw.

"Struck a nerve, did I? And now we can add assault to your list of crimes." Alex's grin widens, and his eyes light up with a sudden feral eagerness. "As for me, I was merely defending myself."

I move quickly, but not quickly enough. Alex moves like lightning, like a trained fighter, and even Jimmy's not fast enough to prevent Alex's punch from connecting with my chin and knocking me on my ass.

Jimmy's on Alex in an instant. But despite Jimmy's size and strength, he has a hell of a time holding onto the smaller man. Somewhere in the ensuing brawl, Alex manages to escape a semi-chokehold and, determined to come at me again, he gives Emily a hard shove out of his way. Then Chris leaps into action and the two of them finally wrestle Alex to the pavement, one arm twisted behind him and Chris's knee shoved painfully in his back.

"I've got him," Chris pants. He looks up at Jimmy and jerks his head in my direction. "See to Jared." He looks down at Alex, whose face is white and pinched with pain. "You made one hell of a big mistake when you touched my wife, motherfucker." He gives Alex's arm a jerk, and Alex howls. "Yeah, that's right. Sing louder."

Emily's eyes are wide as she kneels by me. "Are you okay?" She looks at my face. "You're bleeding." She turns to Alex, who's glaring at us with his one visible eye, his face pressed against the hot pavement. "I'll be right back," she says to me.

Jimmy's aiding me to my feet as Emily stalks over to Alex. She stares down at him for a moment. "This is for Kristov, you cowardly sonofabitch," she hisses. She draws back one foot, and it's then that I notice she's wearing pointy-toed cowboy boots. The foot swings forward and drives into Alex's ribs. His howl of pain almost drowns out the sound of the approaching two police cars, cherries flashing, sirens screaming. Blood drips from the cut on my lip and leaves scarlet stains on my shirt as I watch them swing into the parking lot. I wipe away the blood from my lip with the back of my hand.

Alex doesn't go quietly, of course. He's screaming about having been attacked first, that he's a lawyer and they can't hold him. As he's cuffed and led to the awaiting squad car, he screams at us, "You're  _all_  finished. When I'm through with you—" his eyes meet mine— "especially  _you,_  you little prick—when I tell everyone what I know about you, your career will be over!"

By now we've drawn a respectable crowd of bystanders, gawking and murmuring to each other while we're talking to the police, catching every world Alex screams at us. And there's paparazzi. I swear there's some kind of network these bastards must have. They sure know when and where to pop up the instant there's any celebrity drama.Chris and I meet eyes, each knowing the other is thinking the exact same thing—how is this going to look, and what are we going to say to our respective PR reps, agents, and managers when the inevitable shit hits the proverbial fan?

When the police are gone, the cameras remain. Chris gives me a lopsided grin and slings an arm across my shoulders. "Fuck it," he says. I look up at him and grin back, dabbing at my bleeding lip with the tail of my shirt.

"Angela and Melissa are gonna have a fuckin' field day with this," Emily mutters as she eyes the cameras.

"I don't want to even think about what my team's gonna say," I sigh. Then the  sigh turns into a grin as I say, "But I second your 'fuck it', Pine, and I'll raise you one—"

In unison, Chris and I raise our hands and give the assembled cameras a pair of stiff middle fingers before turning and going back into the hospital.

 

***

 

At the nurse's station, Chris asks for an ice pack for my lip. I'm holding it in place as we step into Kristov's room, and his dark eyes widen in alarm, flitting from me to Chris to Emily and back again. "What happened to you?" he asks, his gaze dropping to the bloodstains decorating my shirt.

The three of us exchange a glance. "Alex came here. He's been arrested and he's in jail," I say around the ice pack, moving to Kristov's bedside. "He wasn't exactly cooperative before he went."

Kristov's hand reaches up and grasps my arm. "Let me see," he orders.

I hesitate, and then lower the ice pack. The bleeding has more or less stopped, but my lip is swollen and it feels weird, sort of numb and yet throbbing dully. I touch it gingerly. "It's not that bad. Probably looks worse than it feels. And it was well worth it." I smile despite the stinging that it causes.

Kristov stares up at me, and then he lets out a curse and closes his eyes. "You really shouldn't have done that," he murmurs and turns his face away. In a quivering voice he says, "Damn you, Jared. Damn  _all_  of you."

Chris, Emily, and I all look at each other in the ensuing silence. "Kris," I say gently. "You don't have to defend him anymore. He can't touch you."

Kristov lets out a harsh breath. "You don't understand. You've just made everything so much worse."

I reach out and touch Kristov's hand. "He has to be held accountable for what he's done."

Kristov throws off my hand. "I think," he turns his face to mine. His eyes are damp. "I think you all should go now." He looks away again, his voice strained. "Please, just leave me alone."

Although Kristov's words are soft, they sting as if he's shouted them. Frustration and helplessness well up in me to the point I want to scream.

I don't. Instinctively I know the harder I push, the stronger Kristov will resist listening. And so instead I take a step back, looking up at Chris and Emily. "All right," I say quietly to Kristov. "If you really want me to, I'll go."

"Jared?" Emily says softly as she and Chris follow me into the hallway. "Go ahead. Go home, take a shower, and take care of that cut on your lip." We watch as a nurse goes into the room, her cheerful greeting to Kristov echoing out the door. Emily turns back to me, saying, "I know you probably want to talk to Lanie about everything, too. I'll speak to Kristov. I think he needs to hear from someone who's been there and has come out the other side."

I search her steady blue eyes. "I guessed that about you," I say quietly. "And I'm sorry you went through that." I look over her shoulder at the open doorway of Kristov's room. The nurse in there is still talking to him, but I don't hear him answering. "But to be honest, right now I'm kind of grateful that you did. Someone who's been there and got out of it might be best able to reach him."

Jimmy, who's back at his post outside Kristov's room, looks up at me. "You want me to drive you home?" he asks.

I glance at Chris, who shakes his head and says, "I'd feel a hell of a lot better if he stays here. I'll give you a lift."

"You okay with hanging out a little longer?" I ask Jimmy. "I know I'd feel better having you here. God knows what kind of bullshit Alex is telling the cops right now to convince them to let him go."

"That's what I was thinking," Chris says. "Otherwise, he'll make bail as quick as he can."

"I know. Which is one reason why I want Kristov to come stay at my place when he's released." I clap Jimmy on the shoulder. "So, I'll have David or Gene come up this evening and relieve you. You're cool with that?"

"As long as Ty's behaving himself and y'all don't mind keeping an eye on him, I'll hang out here as long as you need me to," Jimmy replies with a nod.

Chris clasps his hands together and says, "Okay. Sounds like a plan." He pulls Emily in for a hug. "Angel, we're going to go. I'll be back later to pick you up."

Emily hugs him back and gives him a kiss. "All right, Christopher. I love you."

 

***

 

"Nice ride," I comment as Chris maneuvers his vintage forest-green 1969 Porsche 911T onto Los Feliz Road. Traffic isn't bad here, but after consulting his GPS to check congestion on the freeway, Chris opts for avoiding it.

"Thanks," Chris says with a proud smile. He gives the steering wheel a loving pat. "She's a beauty."

I smile back, but my heart's not really in it. Chris seems to notice, and he throws me a sidelong glance.

"Listen, Jared," he says quietly over the hum of the Porsche's engine. "If anyone can get through to him, it's Ems. She knows what she's talking about."

I lean my head back against the seat, turning to Chris. "She went through something pretty terrible, huh?"

Chris's mouth tightens. "I guess you could say that. Very few people know what I'm about to tell you. We've been able to keep it under wraps, which as you know is hard to do in this town."

I nod, knowing all too well.

"I guess I'll start out this way." He pauses for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. "Before I met Emily, she had been in an abusive relationship. Her ex-husband was one of those controlling, narcissistic fuckers." He takes one hand from the wheel and rubs his eye slightly, as if brushing a tear away. "He beat her constantly, but never hit her where it could be seen." His eyes leave the road and meet mine. "Yeah. Like Alex, he was that methodical and calculating."

I make a sound in my throat, but words won't come out. Chris continues, "He was always saying that it would never happen again, but it always did. He convinced her that the reason why he did it was that he loved her. She blamed herself for the pain and honestly thought that she deserved it."

"Like Kris," I murmur, closing my eyes. My lip throbs dully. "Jesus." I look at Chris's profile. His expression is rigid, his attention wholly fixed on the road. "So, what happened? How'd she get out?"

"She made a plan, squirreled money away from the bastard, even finding money that the asshole kept from her when he sold her car, and she bought a plane ticket home to Ohio."

"Damn," I say, thinking of Lanie and how she'd grabbed Shelby from Todd and made it all the way to Arizona. Extraordinary, courageous, beautiful women, the both of them. "So...is Mac your daughter? I guess I thought..." I trail off and shift uncomfortably.

Chris says, "Emily was pregnant with Mac when she left him. I began adoption proceedings three years ago and it was finalized at our wedding."

I study Chris's profile. "You're a helluva good guy, Pine," I say. "Emily's lucky to have found you."

"To be honest, I'm the lucky one. Ems and Mac are the best things that have happened to me." He slows the car and comes to a stop at a red light. The engine growling low, Chris turns to me and adds, "And you might be the best thing that's happened to Kristov in a long time, too. But—" he hesitates for a second. "I don't mean to overstep here, but Jared, where's your head at with him? I mean—" he hesitates again. "You've got a wife." He shrugs. "Is having him stay at your place going to cause some friction with Lanie?"

I look down at my bloody shirt. "It might," I say, plucking at it. "But it's something I have to do anyway." I look up again, out the windshield at the mid-afternoon traffic as the light turns green and we begin to move again. "I'll be honest with you, though. I'm not sure where my head's at. Not anymore." I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes, bunching my hands into fists. "Christ! Why is it only when you think you're losing someone forever do you realize how much they mean to you?"

"I'm not sure." Chris sighs. "All I know was when we found out that Emily's ex was stalking us, I knew that I had to protect her and Mac no matter what it would cost me." 

"Because you love them," I say softly.

Chris turns to me and holds my gaze. "Yes. Because I love them." 


	15. Lanie

I stand under the portico as Jared, Chris, and the kids all say their goodbyes next to Chris's car. Then Jared walks to the gate and punches in the code to open it. Shelby waves as the Porsche pulls out, and Jared stands there a minute, his back to me, before turning and coming back to the house. He doesn't meet my eyes as he steps on the portico, only mumbles something about needing a shower.

"You need more than a shower," I say as I follow him inside. "Let me look at that lip, and then you can tell me how the hell you got it."

"Please, Lanie, let me get a shower first," he says, not turning around. He continues on his way toward the bedroom. "Then I'll tell you what happened."

Nonplussed, I stay where I am as he disappears into the hall, and then I hear our bedroom door close. 

When Jared re-emerges from the bedroom twenty minutes later, his hair's wet and slicked back, the blood in his beard is washed away, but his lip is bleeding again. He's holding a washcloth against it and it's already stained crimson in spots. "I reopened it when I brushed my teeth," he says ruefully.

"Let me look at it," I insist. "Sit down and let me see."

At first he doesn't want to, but I gently pull his hand holding the washcloth away.

"I guess I bit it pretty deep," he says as I look closely at the wound. It's not large, not even a quarter of an inch, but it's fairly deep. "Hurts like a bitch."

"I bet it does," I murmur, touching it gently. "You don't need stitches, but you do need a topical antibiotic."

He follows me to the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed while I rummage in my pack for my medical kit. "So are you going to tell me who punched you?" I ask as I dig the box out and open it.

"What makes you think anyone punched me?" Jared asks.

"The bruising around your lip," I answer, getting to my feet, medical kit in my hands. "Are we really going to do this, Jared?"

He meets my eyes, holds the gaze for a moment, and then sighs, looking away. "No, we're not." He takes a deep breath and meets my eyes again. "Alex showed up at the hospital. I met him out in the parking lot, and the rest was probably caught by a dozen cameras."

My mouth drops open. On the one hand I'm not in the least shocked, but hearing Jared say that he actually got into a physical altercation with Kristov's husband just makes it all the more real. "Jesus, that's all you need." I take out the jar of aloe paste and unscrew the lid. "Where the fuck was Jimmy?"

"Right there. He and Chris took Alex down and held him until the cops showed up. It wasn't Jimmy's fault, Lanie. The guy moves like he's trained. Like an MMA fighter, or—oww—" he sucks in a hiss as I dab the aloe paste over the cut.

"So, what happened after he tried to bust your teeth in?" I mutter. "Did you get any hits in of your own?"

"Actually, I punched him first." He flexes his right hand. "Unfortunately I didn't really do any damage."

I sit on the edge of the bed beside Jared, digesting this.  _Jared hit Alex first?_  "Where is he now?"

"In jail," he answers. "But I don't know how long they'll hold him. That's why I had Jimmy stay at the hospital. Alex is gonna try to get to Kristov, and I'm gonna make sure he won't." He looks down at his hand and flexes it again. His voice is low but it has an edge. "Alex came very close to killing him, Lanie. If there's a next time, he probably will." Slowly he lays back on the bed, arms overhead and staring at the ceiling. "Emily's there with Kristov. She's hoping she can talk some sense into him."

I shift around so I can see Jared's face. He's staring upward. "Sense into him about leaving the guy? Nobody can force him to do that, Jared," I state quietly. "That's something he has to decide to do himself."

"Yeah," Jared says softly. "But right now, he's in such deep—I don't know what the fuck it is. Denial, I guess. I don't know how or if anyone can reach him. Everyone thought I could." He lowers one hand and rubs his eyes with his thumb and first finger. "But I know I'm the last person he'll listen to. Emily seems to think she can get through to him."

I don't say anything at first. Jared moves his hand from his eyes and lays it across his chest, drumming his fingers as if an unheard melody is playing in his head. He continues staring blankly upward.

"You said you wanted to talk when you got home," I venture. "Kristov being only part of what you want to talk about."

Jared's chest rises and falls heavily. "I know I did. But I'm too tired to do this right now."

"Jared—" I clench my teeth and curb my frustration. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don't let him. "What's going on with you?"

"That's a good question," Jared says. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."

I lean forward and lay my hand on his hand, stilling his fingers. "I don't know if it'll help, but I think I understand at least some of where your head's at."

He chuckles. "I really doubt that you do."

"You're confused by things you think you're feeling. Things you shouldn't be feeling, and if you step away a little, you'll realize that it's just—" Jared's eyes shift from the ceiling to me, narrowing slightly. "Working as an EMT, I've seen this a lot. When someone's life hangs in the balance, it causes all kinds of reactions in people around them. Estranged spouses, siblings, parents, kids, friends...when faced with losing someone, every wrong is forgiven, every hurt is forgotten, and all anyone can remember is the good." There's a heavy pause, filling up the space between Jared and me. "That rush of emotion is not real. But at the time it feels like it is. At the time it feels like it's the only thing that  _is_  real. Only when you step back do you see it for what it is."

Jared's still looking at me. "And what is it?"

I shrug. "Guilt. Fear. An attempt to heal the past and get closure before it's too late." I study him. "When you came in and saw Kristov there on the floor, all you could see was the man you loved years ago. All that went through your mind were good memories, good feelings that actually died a long time ago, and nothing of the bad that happened, then and since then. Am I right?"

"Lanie—"

I hold up a hand, stilling him. "I'm just saying that it's normal, Jared. But now that you know Kristov is going to be okay, you need to step back and regain some perspective. You have so much other shit going on in your life and you can't afford to stress yourself out about him on top of everything else. Whatever he decides to do, he's a grown man who has to make his own decisions."

Jared grimaces and returns his gaze to the ceiling. Sighing loudly, he rubs his face and says, "Next subject, please."

I frown. "Jared, this isn't going to work if you're not going to actively participate and want to participate." I get up from the bed. "But fine. Next subject? Okay. The tabloids and social media are still having a field day with that rape story. And all the other ones have gained new traction, too. When are you going to do something about it?"

"For fuck's sake," he grits. "What do you  _suggest_  I do about it? Make Karen release some kind of statement?" He struggles to sit up, grimacing as he reaches around behind himself and rubs his lower back. "Believe me, Lanie, that only adds fuel. I'm not dignifying any of this shit with a reaction. I never have, and I never will." He rests his elbows on his thighs and presses his forehead against his folded up hands and groans, "Please, can we do this later? I slept for shit last night, and my mouth hurts like a bitch."

I stand there watching him for a moment. When he doesn't move, I sigh, giving up. Admittedly, he really does look wiped out, like he could be falling asleep where he's sitting. "All right," I finally say, trying to keep my impatience from spilling over into my voice. "I've got to go see what the kids are doing, anyway. But we're not done, Jared. You know that, right?"

He doesn't look up. "Yes, I know." He rubs his eyes again. "Wake me if I'm not up by dinnertime."

"Okay." I step to the patio door and draw the blinds closed. With the sun blocked out, the room is cast in not-quite-darkness. Jared pulls back the coverlet, lays down, and turns over so he's facing the opposite wall. He throws the blanket over himself and settles in with a soft sigh.

I pause in the doorway and just look at him through the twilight dimness of the bedroom. Jared's eyes are closed, but I know he's not yet sleeping. If he's aware of my gaze on him, he doesn't acknowledge it. After a moment I leave the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

 

***

 

If I had any illusions that Jared's willingness to talk would improve with a few hours sleep, they're soon shattered. He emerges from the bedroom as reticent as ever. I've ordered Thai—one of his favorites—and he picks at his in a desultory fashion.

"How's your lip feeling?" Shelby asks him, helping herself to another serving of Pad Thai—hers and Tyrell's is complete with egg and fish sauce. "It looks like it really hurts."

Jared glances at her and attempts a smile. "It does, but I'll live."

"You should ice it and put some more aloe on it when you're done eating," she says wisely. "To bring down the swelling and help it heal faster."

"I plan to do just that," Jared answers, sipping his tea carefully, trying to use the uninjured side of his mouth. Some dribbles into his beard and over the front of his shirt anyway and he lets out a curse as he sets the cup down and dabs at it with a napkin. "I guess I need a bib too, huh?"

The muted sound of Jared's phone interrupts. He pulls it from his pocket and glances at it. "Ah, good," he says under his breath. He gets to his feet, mouthing  _excuse me,_  and heads out of the room as he answers.

I watch his retreating back as he walks down the hall back toward our bedroom, wondering who is on the other line that would warrant privacy. It's not as though he hasn't taken calls from any number of people during mealtimes. In fact, Jared usually spends at least half of every mealtime on the phone with or texting someone. Usually his bandmates or a member of his team. So, why the secrecy now?

 _Unless it isn't someone who works with or for Jared,_  a voice whispers.

"He's acting weird," Tyrell observes around a mouthful of Pad Thai.

_Yeah. No shit._

And I'm pretty sure I know why. Question is, what am I going to do about it? Grill Jared about Kristov and his misplaced priorities where his ex-lover is concerned? Give him another Crisis Response 101 lesson? He wasn't feeling it earlier, and I've gotten no indication that he'd be any more open to hearing it now.

When Jared returns to the table ten minutes later, he sits down and picks up his chopsticks as though nothing happened. But he's sitting up straighter. As he engages the kids in conversation his mood seems lighter. But when our eyes meet, I'm certain he's seeing questions in mine, because in his I see a plea not to ask them.

"Your dad'll be home in about twenty minutes," Jared informs Ty. "I let him know you had dinner with us."

"Is that who called?" I ask.

Jared glances at me and shakes his head. "Nope."

I shift impatiently in my chair. "Then who was on the phone?"

Jared concentrates on his chopsticks, not looking at me. "Oh. That was Emily. I had her give Jimmy the phone and I let him know I'm sending Gene there to relieve him."

I glance at the kids before leaning toward Jared slightly. "Do you really think all this is necessary? Having a bodyguard sit there with Kristov twenty-four-seven?"

Jared's answer is swift and decisive. "Absolutely it is." He glances at me again and frowns. "Don't you? I mean, Christ, Lanie, you saw for yourself what that bastard Alex is capable of."

"Can we be excused?" Shelby cuts in. "Ty and I want to finish our game before he has to go home."

"Sure." I wave at them dismissively, feeling a good measure of relief at the kids leaving the room. I really don't want to get in too deep with this while the two of them are listening, although truthfully, the way Shelby and Tyrell go into their own little world when they're together, they were probably not even paying much attention to our conversation.

When the kids are gone, I sit back and fold my arms across my chest. "But do you really think that Alex would post bail and then attack Kristov again while he's in the  _hospital?"_ I shake my head. "That seems just a little too far-fetched." I study him for a moment as he studiously avoids looking at me. "Unless...oh."

Jared sets his chopsticks down and lets out a weary sigh. "Unless what?"

"You're not worried about Alex getting to Kristov physically at all. That's not what this is about." Jared says nothing, and I continue, "You're afraid if Alex shows up there, Kristov will forgive and forget, and he'll take him back." I sigh, rubbing my temples. "Jared, you can't control that. I mean, even if you're able to keep Alex away right now, Kristov is going to be released in a matter of days, and then—"

"And then I can still make sure Alex won't be able to get to him," Jared interrupts. He pushes his plate away and gets to his feet.

I stare up at him. "How are you going to do that?"

Jared stares back and a silence fills the room, growing thicker and heavier with each passing second, filled with a kind of energy I can hardly attribute to Jared—something akin to nervousness. "I..." he trails off for a moment. "I'm going to invite him to stay here when he's released."

My whole body goes rigid. "Tell me you're not serious," I manage, my head starting to spin. The Thai food in my stomach churns unpleasantly as Jared looks at me levelly.  _He's serious, all right._

"Is  _this_  what you planned to lay on me when you texted and said we need to talk?" My voice has an edge I can't conceal. "Having Kristov  _move in?"_

"It is, yeah," he says with a nod. "Lanie, just listen—"

"You're out of your fucking mind." I push my plate away and then I too stand up. "On top of everything else I have to contend with, you're going to move your ex-lover in—the same guy who sold you out to the Valkovs. Is that what I'm hearing right now?" My voice is rising and I'm completely unable to control it. "Fuck no, Jared." I fling my napkin on the table and start to leave the room, but Jared's hand on my arm stops me.

"Will you please listen?" he pleads. "He sold me out, yeah, but he had his reasons. He was in love with Alex and wanted to marry him. Katia left him no choice." I stare at Jared as he swallows hard and continues, "And I've forgiven him for that."

"Yeah? Good for you.  _I_  haven't." I wrench my arm from his grasp. "Because of him, I've had to sit in the shadows. I've been subject to rumors and name-calling by your fans and the tabloids while you're whisking off to Europe and parading around L.A. in public with Katia fucking Valkov. So please understand if I'm less than forgiving."

"I know," Jared says, his voice softening. "I hate that it happened, and believe it or not, Kristov does, too."

I snort. "Yeah, well, the beautiful irony in all of it is, he sold you out to marry a guy who turned out to be a monster." I shake my head. "I gotta say, Karma's sure a real bitch."

Jared's face stills. "That's what he called it, too. Karma." He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "But I think he's been punished enough." His hand squeezes and his voice drops to a near whisper. "Can't you try to find some compassion? You must have some—you gave him aid when you and Emily found him—you examined him and you knew he'd die without medical attention. You're the one who called 911—"

"I did what I'd do for anyone," I reply tersely. "That doesn't mean I'm okay with him in my face and living under our roof." I shake my head. "Jared, you're still in that guilt place because he almost died. Once Kristov is back on his feet and recovering, you'll see that's all this is."

He shakes his head, releases my hand and combs his hair from his face. His face is tight with some expression I can't identify. "No, Lanie, it isn't, and don't try to tell me what's authentic or not in what or how I feel. Kristov is my friend and he needs me, even if he doesn't realize it. I will not turn my back on him."

"He's not your friend, he's your  _ex-lover,"_  I spit. "An ex-lover who fucked you over and made your life miserable, both then and now." I spin around and stride from the room.

"Lanie—" he catches up to me quickly in the hall. "Please don't—"

"Don't what?" I snap, spinning around to face him. "You don't want me to tell you the truth?" I smirk. "Well, tough shit, Jared. You heard the truth. Of course I feel terrible that Kristov found himself in an abusive relationship, but it's not my problem. It's not your problem, either. It's  _his_  problem."

Jared stares at me. "I can't believe you're being like this!" His voice raises, echoing throughout the long cavernous hallway. I glance in the direction of Shelby's tower, hoping she's up in the third-floor game room where sounds don't carry as well from the main house. "After what you went through with Todd, I thought you of all people would be a little more fucking understanding!" His teeth clench and his voice drops."It isn't like I'd have Kristov move into the bedroom next to ours." His arm sweeps back toward the rest of the house. "Look at the size of this place, Lanie. It's a hundred thousand square feet."

"That's not the—"

"Jimmy said Kristov can stay in his wing. He's got an extra bedroom in there and it's fully furnished. He said he'd like the company, and having Jimmy right there provides that much more security for him. You'd hardly have to see him unless you went out of your way to."

I fold my arms across my chest. "So you've already decided to do this," I marvel. "You've got it all planned out, don't you. No matter what I had to say about it, you were going to do this anyway." I laugh sharply. "You didn't really want to talk about it with me, because your mind was made up before you came home. Telling me was just a  _courtesy."_  I shake my head. "Well, forgive me if I don't help Magda organize the welcome party."

"Lanie—I'm sorry." Jared touches his cut lip, and then lowers his hand and sighs. "The last thing I want to do is fight with you about this, but yeah, my mind's made up. I'm going to do whatever I can, whatever Kristov will let me do, to keep him safe. That includes having him stay here for awhile, if he'll agree to it, and I think he will."

Jared holds my gaze for a moment. I search his steady eyes and a stabbing ache pierces through my heart at the sudden suspicion—the dawning realization, really—that there might be much more than a misplaced but natural sense of guilt driving his actions.

I refuse to let my mind go there long enough to ponder it because if I do I'll give voice to those alarming thoughts, and I know this conversation is just about finished—for now, at least. "How long are you planning for him to stay?" I ask quietly as I continue walking toward our bedroom.

Jared doesn't follow, and his answer does nothing to assuage the disquiet now churning inside me. "I don't know," he says. "It's kind of open-ended. A few weeks, a couple of months, maybe. Why?"

I turn around and look at him. "Do you really think Kristov will just go along with you making all these decisions for him? The guy you described to me wasn't exactly submissive. Just the opposite, in fact."

Jared shrugs. "I can only hope so," he answers quietly.

 

***

 

Stevie and Tomo arrive shortly after seven, and Jimmy comes to collect Tyrell soon after. Knowing Jared will be occupied in the studio for at least a few hours I return to the dining room. I collect the take-out boxes and discard them, then stack the dishes and bring them to the kitchen to wash.

Keeping busy is what I need to do, and I throw myself into the task, in the hope it helps keep those thoughts at bay; the ones that gripped me in the hallway and have refused to let go ever since.

Their relationship ended eight years ago. Whatever it was between them should be long dead by now. Though Jared said Kristov went through a dark phase in the wake of their break-up, he did ultimately move on, meeting and falling so deeply in love with Alex that he fucked Jared over to marry the man.

And Jared certainly moved on. His acting and music career reached its pinnacle, achieving stardom he scarcely ever dreamed of. He became a tech investor as well, a side project that proved more than lucrative, and then he met me. He's now my husband, and a father to Shelby. He loves us, and we love him. We're a  _family._  He has no room in his heart for a man he had a fling with eight long years ago to satisfy his bi-curiosity.

 _It was more than that and you fucking know it. More than a fling, more than satisfying that other side of his sexuality. Jared loved Kristov_ — _probably more than he's ever loved anyone_ — _until you._

Yeah. And now something about Kristov's situation and vulnerability might be re-awakening feelings in Jared that I thought were long dead and gone. Something I don't know how to deal with, something I'm not sure I  _can_  deal with. If Kristov moves in, even in Jimmy's quarters, even as a temporary measure for his protection, his constant presence will permeate everything that Jared and I and Shelby have been working on building together. Call me selfish, call me cold and unfeeling, but I don't want to share Jared with this man, even if Jared's feelings are, as he claims, only that of friendship.

It was their past friendship that led them to falling in love, however unwise that was. Who's to say that with close proximity to each other, it might not happen again?

I curl my hands around the edge of the kitchen counter, breathing deeply to keep my flailing emotions in check. I stare into the sink basin, but I don't really see it. I see the two of them, Jared and Kristov. My mind's eye unfurls the scene I witnessed between them at Kristov's house, Jared's face contorted in anguish, his tears falling into Kristov's hair as he begs him to hold on. I hear Kristov's voice whispering  _'Do you feel that?'_  in a kind of soft wonder. I imagine what it'll be like, the two of them hanging out here together, exchanging lingering glances and quiet words meant only for them, and the aching in my soul increases threefold.

I leave the kitchen and go to the intercom. Pressing it, I call for Shelby, letting her know I'm going out for a little while and that if she needs anything, Jared's in the studio.

A half hour hour later, I'm just outside of Pomona, the lights of L.A. a fading halo in my rear-view mirror. I pull over and stop the truck, climbing a nearby hill where the view is spectacular and the cool desert night air washes over me unencumbered.

I've been here a number of times. It's the one place that seems to soothe me, the one place that, whenever the longing for familiar sights and sounds becomes too much, lends a comforting blanket of peace over me. It's not home by any stretch, but I feel a taste of it in the trees and hills.

I settle in against a huge rock, watching as the expanse of cloudless sky turns deep indigo and the first stars begin to appear. Coyotes howl in the hills nearby, and night birds take to the air in hunt for insects. I sip from the bottle of water I've brought along with me, willing my mind to quiet and absorb the lifebeat of nature around me.

I don't belong in Los Angeles. I face the fact calmly, admitting that I've known this simple truth since I arrived here. I don't love the city the way Jared does, and I haven't acclimated the way Shelby seems to have. If not for escaping to places like this, I'm certain I'd lose my mind before much longer.

_Are you now only saying this because Jared's bringing Kristov to live in the compound and you're building up defenses against what you're afraid will inevitably happen?_

_Maybe. But that makes it no less a fact. Maybe it's just that Jared's decision was what I needed to force me into facing the truth._

Sighing, I take another sip of water, watching as a falling star lights an arc in the sky to the northeast.

Like a child, I wish on it. 


	16. Lanie

I arrive at Flora and Magda's West Hollywood condo fifteen minutes late. Right as I'd been leaving the compound, a news van pulled up on Wonderland Avenue, blocking my exit to the street. Two reporters, male and female, as well as a cameraman all jumped out and the reporters began shouting questions at me.

I had no choice but to wait inside the Jeep until Jimmy and Magda both came out and dealt with them. Choice words were exchanged, and finally the police were summoned. The newspeople got back inside their van and left. But not before I heard the female reporter speak the words to Jimmy, Magda and the cops that I'd been dreading for weeks.

_Sources tell us Jared Leto is under formal investigation for the sexual assault of a sixteen-year-old girl, and there's also new information about a past relationship with a man—_

Thank God Flora's agreed to see me. I'm sure she's been kept abreast by Magda of everything that's been happening since we spoke last. I'm going to need her support. I can only hope she'll be willing to lend it.

I've never been to their place before. Flora's always come to the compound, or else we've met someplace. But thanks to my GPS I don't have any trouble finding the mid-rise building on Alta Loma Road. Finding a place to park takes another ten minutes though, and I end up having to walk a few blocks back.

Flora buzzes me in and is waiting for me in the doorway of her place. "Jesus," she comments. "You look like hell. Come on in."

"Thanks a lot," I say wryly as I follow her inside, where I'm greeted by a buff-colored Cocker Spaniel,  stubby tail wagging enthusiastically, a grin on his doggy face. 

"Wilson," Flora says sharply when the dog stands on his hind legs to get a better look at me and, presumably, to be petted. "Down. Kennel." She glances at me. "Sorry about that. Almost eight years old and thinks he's still a pup."

"It's okay," I say as Wilson does what he's told. "I miss having a dog around."

Flora closes the kennel door and beckons me into the kitchen. It's big for a galley kitchen, all granite and stainless steel appliances, and spotlessly clean. Beyond it is a small dining room with a black lacquer high table and two stools. Colorful modern art decorates the walls. I smell coffee, and Flora goes to the elaborate, all-in-one coffeemaker and pours two cups. "I thought you'd changed your mind about wanting to see me," she murmurs, handing me one of the cups.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I'm late," I say, taking a sip of coffee. "Parking in front of your building is nonexistent, and if you haven't heard from Magda about the incident outside the compound yet, I'm sure you will soon."

Flora raises an eyebrow. "Incident outside the compound?"

I tell her about the news van, and her expression darkens. "Oh, shit." She slumps in her chair, running her finger around the brim of her cup. "Well, Lanie, I think you know what I'm going to say."

"Yeah," I say. "I do. I was going to tell him, Flora, I swear to God. But then this thing with Kristov happened last week and he's been acting weird ever since."

Flora says nothing, but her jaw hardens. "What are you going to do now?"

I wring my hands together in my lap. "I don't know."

Flora's dark eyes meet mine. "Jared's apparently under formal investigation for a sex crime that didn't happen, that you have _proof_ didn't happen, you know who his accuser is, and you don't  _know_ what you're going to  _do?"_

"If I tell him this now, it might be the final straw, Flora!" I exclaim. "He's already pissed at me because I don't want Kristov hanging around. I mean, can you blame me? Really? That guy is the reason I have to sit back and watch Jared gallivant around with another woman, pretending to be her boyfriend, while I'm called  _PoolGirl_ , a homewrecker, and worse!" Flora says nothing to this, but she's staring at me with the same expression she did when I showed her the guitar pick and told her about Shae. "If you'd been there that night Emily and I found Kristov and saw how Jared acted _—_ the things he said to Kristov and the way he broke down sobbing _—nothing_  mattered to him but that sonofabitch _—_ " I press my thumb and forefinger to my closed eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to control my flailing emotions.

"I'm gonna say something and I'm not going to sugarcoat it, because I don't think you need that." Flora pauses until I move my hand from my eyes and look at her. She continues, "In all the years I've known Jared, he's never wanted a committed relationship, never mind marriage. Until he met you." She tears her eyes away from mine and gets up. Taking her coffee cup back to the kitchen, she tops it off, and then looks over her shoulder at me. "He can be impulsive, but never about things like that. Obviously, since he waited until he was almost forty-six years old."

"What are you saying?" I mumble.

"I can't help but wonder why he did such an about-face and so quickly." She walks back to the table. "I don't doubt he loves you, Lanie, believe me, it's not that. But he loved Kristov too, and I can't help but wonder if _—_ " she cuts her words off and chews her bottom lip.

Flora's words strike a deep chord in me. Giving voice to the very thoughts that have plagued my mind over the last several days causes a rock to lodge in my throat. "When Jared and I were in Oak Creek Canyon, he told me the entire story about Kristov. When he finished, he broke down crying, and a little later that night is when he asked me to marry him." I draw a shaking breath. "And when Ivan showed him the pictures at Bouchon, he cried. Right there at the table in front of Ivan and Katia, he cried. I thought it was because he was pinned in a corner and had no choice but to go along with what they wanted. But now _—_ " I swallow hard. "I'm pretty sure it's something more."

"Something more, like Jared has never stopped loving Kristov." Flora says as she slides back into her chair. It's not a question, it's a statement.

"And as we speak Kristov's being discharged, and Jared's with him. He's bringing the man home with him. You tell me, Flora. What the hell am I supposed to do?" I blink moisture from my eyes.

Flora's expression tightens further. "You need to talk to Jared. And I mean  _talk_  to him. Even if he shuts down on you, sit him down and make him listen. Talk to him about everything that you're feeling, make him tell you everything that  _he's_  feeling, and for Christ's sake, tell him about Shae, about you, about that night at the State Fair before this investigation shit spins completely out of control." She pauses and looks me square in the eye, her fathomless dark eyes steady and serious. "It's too late to hope this all will go away quietly. None of it is going away. You have to quit fucking around and do this, and you have to do it today, Lanie."

 

***

 

It's three hours later and close to six when I finally pull into the drive. I power down my window and press the four-digit code for the gates, which slowly swing open. I don't bother driving around to the garage; I park the Jeep in the motor court instead, trying to tell myself that it isn't because I'll probably need the vehicle again soon.

I've spent two of those three hours driving out to the hill near Pomona and sitting there for awhile looking at the city in the distance, trying to clear my thoughts of all trepidation, of rationalizing every possible outcome, of trying to convince myself that it won't be as bad as I keep imagining it will be.

But what if it  _is_  that bad? What if it's  _worse?_

Or, what if Jared barely bats an eye? That'd be a kick in the ass, wouldn't it? Working myself up over something that doesn't even faze him.

But it  _will_  faze him. Especially now that the rape story has obviously gained traction outside of gossip sites and has now leaked into the legit media. Could that newswoman be telling the truth? Is there an actual formal investigation going on, one involving the police? That's something I need to find out.

And Kristov. He's surely at the house by now, getting settled in and cozy with Jimmy. A part of me resents the hell out of Jimmy for inviting Kristov to stay with him. We've become friends over the months I've been living with Jared, and Jimmy taking Kristov in _—_ indeed, he  _invited_  the man—it feels like a betrayal of that friendship.

I get out of the Jeep and step across the portico, unlocking the front door and going inside. And who is the first person I see _—_ in  _my_  kitchen, rummaging about through  _my_  cupboards, with  _my_  favorite mug on the counter in front of him. Watching him handle my things with such familiarity puts me instantly on the offensive.

"Can I help you?" I say, my tone sharp.

Kristov turns around and looks at me standing in the kitchen doorway. His smile is instantaneous. "Oh. Hello, Lanie," he says in his melodic accent. His dark brown eyes are warm and friendly. "We haven't been formally introduced, and I wanted to thank you as well for helping me that night and for your hospitality. I'm Kristov Belneczek." He puts out his hand.

My hand remains at my side. "I know who you are."

His smile fades as a frown crosses his features, both at my snubbing his handshake and undoubtedly at my tone, but then vanishes as quickly as it appeared. His outstretched hand becomes a gesture at the cabinets behind him. "I _—_ I was looking for the tea. Jared told me to help myself, but...I'm afraid I don't know where it is."

I grind my teeth together. "He did, did he?" My tone is as frigid as the rest of me, and I can't seem to stop it. I step into the kitchen, open a cupboard and grab the tea canister. Plunking it down on the countertop I ask, my voice dripping with acid, "And where  _is_ my husband?"

Kristov's smile falters again. Good. He clears his throat. "Uh...my doctor prescribed an antibiotic. It's one I've never taken before, and I'm allergic to most of them. Jared said you have something that works very well and he suggested I should try it instead of risking a bad reaction. He's getting it for me."

"How nice." I don't bother concealing my sarcasm. "But aren't you supposed to be at Jimmy's?" I reach for my mug and hang it back up on the hook in the cupboard, grabbing another one for him to use instead.

Kristov tilts his head to the side, biting his bottom lip, his nearly black eyes studying me. His long dark hair is loose, tumbling over his shoulders and down his back, his shadow of facial hair setting off his features beautifully. Grudgingly, I have to admit he truly  _is_ one of the hottest men I've ever seen in my life. "You are not happy that Jared asked me to stay here," he observes.

"How very perceptive of you." I pick up the tea canister and move it so it's next to the mug.

Kristov's brows knit together. "I wasn't told that you objected, Lanie. I wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise."

I laugh. "Oh, Jared is very good at getting his way. I don't think anything you could've said would've changed his mind. Nothing  _I_ said did." I glance out the kitchen doorway. "You have the tea now, so if you'll excuse me _—_ "

"Lanie, I'm sorry,"  Kristov says quietly, "If you wish, I will tell Jared I've decided to send for an Uber and I'll leave. The last thing I want is to cause problems between the two of you."

"Problems," I say and laugh again. "You don't know the half of it. Or, maybe you do. I don't know and I don't give a fuck."

I turn on my heel and stride from the room before Kristov can reply, heading for our bedroom. God, Jared's going to be pissed to hear about my rudeness to his guest, but I'm beyond giving a damn about that right now. Jared himself assured me that I wouldn't even have to see the man unless I went out of my way to, and yet there he is, making himself at home in our kitchen?  _Well, fuck that._ Angrily I fling open the bedroom door, ready to tell Jared exactly what I think of this _—_ this  _interloper_  hanging about in our house. But my words freeze in my throat along with my body in the doorway.

Jared's sitting on the end of the bed, feet crossed at the ankles, and his eyes are narrowed in my direction. He's flipping something over and over between his fingers, something shiny and silver that the light catches as he spins it. Next to him is the bottle of colloidal silver and in front of him, scattered on the floor, is everything else from my pack. My heart plummets to my toes and settles there.

"Jared, what the hell are you doing?" I ask, looking over the mess. "Why'd you empty my whole pack, when you know I keep the colloidal silver in the medical kit?"

Jared doesn't answer that. His fingers cease their twirling and he holds out his hand. "Where'd you get this?" he asks.

"What?" I ask, knowing damn well what.

Jared smirks. His eyes still on me, he slowly gets to his feet and approaches me. I take two compensating steps back and run into the door frame.

Jared stands directly in front of me, eyes unblinking. He reaches over and closes the door next to me. "Where'd you get this?" he asks again.

I drop my eyes to the silver guitar pick in his hand, the Mars triad logo emblazoned on it. "I _—_ " The truth is on my lips. I came home with every intention of telling him the truth but now the moment is here, I'm frozen, pinned under that tense blue stare, caught by the sensation that my heart has begun beating in reverse. "I don't remember."

Jared leans forward, his lips very close to my ear, and he says quietly, "Why are you lying to me, Lanie?"

I squint my eyes closed. "Jared _—_ "

"We had these picks made for our first major tour," he says, his voice still just over a whisper. "2002, 2003. We thought they were cool, but they were expensive to make and so we had just a few of them. A couple dozen at the most."

"Jared _—_   " I swallow heavily, my throat feeling thicker by the minute. I can't stop trembling. "Please, just listen _—_ "

"We made a joke of them," he continues. "Mostly it was Matt and me, but Solon and Shannon did too, sometimes. We each pre-printed notes to hand out to girls we...liked. We wrapped these picks in the notes and gave them out at the shows to girls we wanted to hook up with." He pauses. "By the end of the tour, they were gone. I haven't seen one since October of 2003 in Vancouver. Solon handed the last one out that night."

I close my eyes. A shiver runs through me as Jared's voice takes on a dangerous edge. "So I'm gonna ask you one last time, Lanie. Where did you get this pick?"

When I'm finally able to summon words from my throat, my voice sounds strangled. "Sit down, Jared."

He returns to the end of the bed, in the exact same spot he was sitting in when I came into the room. His eyes follow my every movement as I kneel on the floor to gather up my documents, photos and personal mementos and the medical kit and put it all back into my pack. He's still holding onto the pick.

"I'm waiting," he says quietly.

I close my eyes briefly. "Yes, I lied to you," I murmur as I close my pack and buckle the straps. "But not directly. By omission." I look up at him, and his focus is on me, still with that unblinking stare. "When we met in Oak Creek Canyon, that wasn't the first time. We _—_ we met before that."

Jared's gaze doesn't waver. It intensifies. "When?"

"2003. The Minnesota State Fair. You opened for Chevelle. I was there. I was in the pit at the barricade. I _—_ there was a fight, and I got knocked down and _—_ "

Jared's eyes widen. "Minnesota State Fair? That's the show that the rape story came from!"

"Yes," I whisper. "It is. But it wasn't _—_ "

"A fight..." Jared is shaking his head in confusion. "I'm remembering a little bit of this now. I jumped off the stage and helped a girl who was getting trampled in the pit _—_ " his eyes fly open and lock on mine. "So how the fuck did  _you_  get it, if this girl who's screaming rape says  _she_  got it?"

I shake my head. "You gave the note and the pick to  _me._   _I'm_  the girl who was getting trampled in the pit, Jared. You jumped off the stage, you yelled at everyone to step back. You helped me to my feet and asked me if I was okay. Then you handed me the note and it was wrapped around that pick."

Jared's staring at me with a stunned expression. "Holy shit. I remember now. The girl who never came to the bus after the show. Solon and Matt gave me no end of shit about it, too, saying I went out of my way to rescue a damsel in distress and got ditched for my trouble." He looks closely at me, scrutinizing every inch of my face. "Oh, my God.  _That was you?"_

"Yes," I say in a tiny voice. "I guess I've changed a lot since age eighteen. You've never recognized me."

He stares at me, shock etching his features. "It was over fourteen years ago, we've played hundreds of shows since then. I barely remember that tour at all, much less that one show and that girl until now. But I don't understand, Lanie. If you're the girl I gave the note and this pick to, then who's the bitch saying I raped her?"

I look down, fiddling with the straps on my pack. "Her name is Shae Neilson. She went to the concert with me. She and another girl from my hometown, Liz. They're the only ones who knew about the note and the pick, and Liz passed away in 2012. It has to be Shae. She was insanely jealous that I got your attention. I'm guessing maybe she found out that we're together, and this is some twisted kind of revenge."

Jared's silent at this. His eyes are a tempest of emotions, none of them good. His mouth is tight, and he's deathly pale. Finally, he says slowly, "Okay. So help me understand this. What I'm hearing from you is that you've been lying to me for months. Worse, this fucking story hit the tabloids weeks ago, and this whole time you've said  _nothing!"_ He leaps to his feet and stares down at me. His voice rises until he's yelling as he continues, "If I hadn't found this fucking pick when I was looking for this fucking colloidal silver for Kristov, how far would you have let it go before you finally fucking  _said_ something?!"

"I was going to tell you!" I shout back. "In fact, I was going to tell you today! Flora said I needed to _—_ "

"Flora knows about this, too?" Jared shouts. "Jesus fucking  _Christ!"_  He begins to pace the floor at the foot of the bed. "It's one fucking thing that you let me believe you didn't know who I was when we met. It's a whole other thing that when that fucking story came out you still stayed silent. And now..." he stops pacing when I get to my feet, and he stands in front of me. He's no longer pale. His face is flushed, and he's angrier than I've ever seen him. "And now, I'm under criminal investigation. Do you realize that? You've kept your mouth shut, and they've begun a _criminal investigation!"_

"I'm sorry." I move to touch Jared and he flinches away from me, shooting me a look of almost hatred. "I never thought it would go that far, Jared! I thought it would die down eventually _—_ "

My words dry up as Jared slumps on the bed again, burying his face in his hands. His voice is muffled. "I only want to know one thing."

"What?"

"Why you've kept this from me. Why you  _lied_  to me."

I take a quivering breath. "You wouldn't have opened up to me if you knew I'd ever been a fan.You assumed I didn't know who you were, and you let me in, let me know the real you, and you made me feel special." Jared lowers his hands and gives me an incredulous stare. "You know damn well that if I'd said anything about knowing who you were, that wouldn't have happened. Right? You'd have stayed completely guarded with me. You told me one thing you loved about me was that you could just be yourself. No personas, just Jared, the man. Remember that?" Jared says nothing, and I continue, "Out there in Oak Creek Canyon, yes, I knew who you were but I didn't  _see_  a celebrity. I saw an injured man, a man both my daughter and I came to care very deeply about. You being the famous Jared Leto didn't factor into  _anything_  about how I felt, and Shelby had no idea who you were at all!"

It's as if I haven't even spoken. Jared picks up the brown glass bottle of colloidal silver. "I need to give this to Kristov. He's been waiting." He gets to his feet and starts for the door.

"We need to talk about this, Jared," I say. "We need to talk about a lot of things."

Jared opens the door and pauses. Turning back to me, he says, "You know, when I met you out there in Oak Creek Canyon, I thought it was a miracle. Someone who had no preconceived ideas about me, someone who'd just accept me as I am. The  _real_  me." He laughs, a sharp sound. "God, I feel like such a fucking idiot."

"Jared _—_ " a single tear hovers on the end of my lashes for a moment. I blink, and then it falls. "That's exactly who I was, who I still am."

He shakes his head slowly. "No. I don't know who you are, Lanie, but I do know you're not who I thought you were." He clutches the bottle in his hand tightly and looks away.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

"Yeah, I do believe you are. But it's a little too late for that now." He turns his brilliant gaze to me. "I'm gonna go with Kristov over to Jimmy's for awhile."

"Jared, please don't. I never meant _—_ goddammit,we have to talk about this!"

He shakes his head again, and the last thing he says to me before leaving the room is, "Don't follow me." 


	17. Jared

I'm left stunned, absolutely reeling from what I've just learned, and I can't begin to gather my thoughts into any coherent order. All I feel is a kind of collapse inside me, leaving me carved out and hollow.

A part of me wants to yell, to curse, to scream.  _Why?_

 _Why_  did Lanie not tell me who she was from the beginning?  _Why_  did she not tell me she knew who  _I_  was? The reasoning she gave is fucked beyond belief, and completely, one-hundred percent self-serving, a quality I never in a million years would have thought I'd attribute to her.

Lanie could've prevented these weeks of stressing myself sick over a rape story that she can prove never happened...and this guts me. She was more concerned about how I'd react to learning about her lies than she was about the possibility that I could be brought up on some very serious charges, not to mention what it would do to me professionally. Innocent or not, some celebrities never recover from something like this, and Lanie knows that. We've  _talked_  about it, for Christ's sake! And yet, she stood by for weeks while the story began to spread and she said  _nothing!_

That hurts. Down deep, down to my soul, that really fucking hurts.

The full ramifications haven't yet permeated my shock; haven't begun to piece themselves together; but I know beyond any doubt that damage—possibly irreparable—has been done. But I can't focus on that right now. I have to cool down and think straight. I have to fully process this before considering anything beyond the moment.

But still, it hurts. It hurts fucking bad.

Kristov is no longer in the kitchen where I left him. The tea canister is there on the counter next to a coffee cup, but Kristov is nowhere in sight. I set the bottle of colloidal silver on the counter next to the tea canister and leave the room. I look in the dining room, the main living room, and I peer down the stairs that lead to the gym and the studio. Nothing.

"Kris?" I call out. My voice echoes hollowly, but there's no response. He may have already gone to Jimmy's, but he wouldn't even know how to get there. I step outside, thinking perhaps he's gone to look over the grounds, what little there is to the grounds besides the pool.

But he isn't there, either. I walk back around the house, and it's then that I spot him. Leaning against a tree next to the front gate, arms wrapped around himself. His head's down, hair falling in a loose black curtain around his face. I hurry over to him. "Hey, here you are."

Kristov doesn't look up. His arms tighten further around himself instead, and he shuffles his feet. His body language is sending out tension, and alarm ripples through me. "What are you doing out all the way out here?" I ask gently.

"You didn't tell me your wife didn't want me to come here," Kristov says quietly. He still doesn't look at me, focusing on his feet instead. "I wish you had told me that."

_Oh._

I take a step toward him and touch his arm. "What did she say to you?"

A one-shoulder shrug. "Nothing very much, but she didn't have to. She made her feelings clear." He finally looks up at me, and his eyes are very dark and remote. "I shouldn't stay, Jared. Please get me an Uber so I can leave."

I fix him with a penetrating stare. "And go where? Home, so Alex can finish the job he started?" Scowling, Kristov opens his mouth but I cut him off before he can say a word. "No. Don't worry about Lanie, just—let's go to Jimmy's, let's get that antibiotic in you and you can get some rest. You shouldn't be walking around so much yet, anyway." I give a gentle tug on his arm. "Come on, Kris. Jimmy's expecting you."

Kristov pulls back a little, looking out through the gate as a car passes by. I touch his chin and turn him, needing that eye contact. I see the pain clouding his eyes, a hurt that goes beyond the physical. He lets out a harsh breath. "I should have never agreed to come here." He wraps his arms around himself again. "And you should've told me that Lanie didn't want me here, but you didn't."

"And you should've put a restraining order on Alex before he bailed himself out of jail, but you didn't. So—" I take his arm again— "come on. You're white as a sheet, you're in pain, and Dr. Lindsey said you have to get the antibiotics in your system. You're really susceptible to infections right now." I give another tug on his arm. "Please."

"And what about your wife?" Kristov pulls his arm back again, but this time I don't let go of him and he makes a frustrated sound. "Stop and think about her, Jared. She has a right to her feelings. She's already suffered enough because of me. Both of you have." He shakes his head and turns away again. "And I will not be the reason for any more of it."

I grimace. "Look, Kris. The fact is, Lanie and I have a lot of issues that have nothing to do with you." My fingers grasping his arm tighten. "Come on, man. I told you I understand why you did what you did, and I've forgiven you, so—"

"Yes, though I can't begin to understand why, and clearly Lanie has not." When Kristov looks at me again, his eyes are unnaturally shiny. "I very much want to spend time with you, Jared, but not at the cost of hurting your wife and your marriage, especially if you already have other problems. I don't wish to add to them. I can't be that selfish, and I don't want you to be that selfish, either."

My throat constricts. Is that what I'm being? Selfish? I only know I don't want to let Kristov go, and not only because I'm scared to death about his safety. There's more to it—I can admit that freely, if only to myself. Just being near him opens up something in me. Something pure, something powerful, something almost frightening in its intensity. It was there all those years ago too, but somehow it's different now—there's a different chemistry, a different connection, an even richer sense of intimacy than there was back then. Something that's resonated in me since the morning I woke up in his house.

I don't know how to explain it to Kristov, or if I dare ask him if he senses it as well. Hell, I can't even pin it down and define or label it myself, except that I feel what I feel. That's it. And so I can only repeat my plea to Kristov to go with me to Jimmy's, take the medicine and rest, and we'll figure everything else out later.

By some miracle, Kristov finally agrees. Probably because he's in a lot of pain and is just too weak and too exhausted to argue anymore.

He only takes a dozen or so steps before I have to help him walk, which tells me just how fragile he is. Christ, even if Kristov had made it home to Los Feliz, he'd never get up the front steps and into his house. I tell him so as I wrap my arm around him and he slings his over my shoulders. He leans on me for support, all the while protesting that he can walk on his own.

"Like hell you can. Jesus Christ, you're still such a stubborn bastard," I grumble as he shuffles by my side.

Kristov gives a half-hearted laugh. "If I am, then that makes two of us."

Because Kristov is taller and heavier than I am, it's all I can do to hold him upright by the time we get around back, past the pool and to Jimmy's door. The big man takes one look at Kristov sagging in my grasp and quickly relieves me of my burden, helping Kristov through the house to the back bedroom that we had the housekeepers prepare for him. As we pass Tyrell's bedroom, both Ty and Shelby abandon their homework and stand in the doorway watching us pass.

"Hey, kiddo," I say, pausing to rumple Shelby's hair. "I thought you'd gone home by now."

"Ty needed a lot of help with his math homework 'cuz he was a couple of assignments behind. So that's your friend?" Shelby nods at Kristov, being aided into the bedroom on Jimmy's strong arm. "Is he okay?"

"He is in a lot of pain and he's still really weak after having surgery," I explain. "He'll be okay after he gets some rest and more time to heal."

"I wanna meet him," she says. "Can I?"

"You will. Maybe tomorrow he'll be feeling better." I pause and add, "He needs medicine. Antibiotics. I left the colloidal silver on the counter in the kitchen. Would you be a sweetie and go get it, please?"

"When she comes back can she stay and help me finish my homework?" Tyrell asks. "I've only got a few more problems left to do."

"You bet," I answer. "As long as you're done by eight, Shelby. It's a school night, and remember it's litter box night, too."

"Ugh," Shelby groans as she heads to the front of the house. "I forgot about that. Okay, I'll get 'em done before bed."

Jimmy's guest bedroom isn't fancy by any means, but it's comfortable and roomy, with a queen-sized bed made up with crisp new linens and a dark brown and tan comforter. There's a nine-drawer dresser of dark walnut with a forty-inch TV on top of it, plush tan carpeting, and a big bay window that offers a partial view of the rocky hillside behind the compound, and overlooks a bit of Laurel Canyon as well. It has an en-suite bathroom, as do the other two bedrooms in Jimmy's place.

Jimmy and I get Kristov situated in bed. Jimmy removes Kristov's shoes and tosses them on the floor. "I'll make sure the kids stay quiet," he says, looking down at Kristov's parchment-white face and half-closed eyes. "He needs a lot of rest and quiet."

"All I  _did_  is rest for the past week. I'm fine," Kristov grumbles. "Will you two stop fussing over me, please? It's embarrassing."

"Nobody's fussing over you," I reply. "Let's get you undressed so you're more comfortable."

Kristov's eyes meet mine, anxiety filling them. "No. No. Please don't. I'm fine like this."

I raise an eyebrow. "I want to make sure your incision looks okay, too."

The anxious look in his eyes grows. "No, Jared. Please, just leave it be."

"Kris, we're supposed to keep an eye on it, and with you up and walking around like you were—"

 _"No!"_ Kristov's voice is strident. He covers his midsection with his hands. "You want me to rest, I will rest. But no undressing, no looking at it.  _Please."_

Jimmy and I look at one another silently. At the other end of the house, I hear the front door open and close. "That must be Shelby," Jimmy murmurs. "I'll get the medicine for you."

When his heavy footsteps echo down the hall, I look back at Kristov. He's turned his face away from me, chewing his bottom lip. "What's wrong, Kris?" I ask him gently. I sit carefully on the edge of the bed and smooth his hair from his face. 

"I—it's nothing," he mumbles.

"I think it's something," I argue quietly. "Talk to me."

His throat works, but Kristov stays silent, only turning his head when Jimmy re-enters the room with the brown glass bottle and a plastic dosage cup he dug up someplace, probably from a cold medicine bottle. "Here you go," he says as he hands them to me, and then glances over his shoulder. "But—ah—you might wanna see what's goin' on with Shelby. She's upset about somethin'."

I open the bottle of colloidal silver, staring up at Jimmy. "Upset? What do you mean?"

"She's cryin', and she wouldn't tell me why." He glances behind him out the bedroom door again. "She's back in Ty's room."

I hand the bottle and dosage cup back to Jimmy. "Give him a full ounce of this," I instruct. I look down at Kristov and give his hand a squeeze. "I'll be right back."

"All right," he murmurs.

I hurry to Tyrell's bedroom door and give a knock on it. "Hey," I call quietly. "Ty, can you open up, please?"

A murmur of voices, and then Ty calls out, "It's open, Mr. Leto."

I open the door and step inside. There, curled up on the floor next to Ty's computer desk, Shelby sits with her knees drawn up to her chest and her forehead pressed against them. Although she's silent, I can tell by the shaking of her body she's sobbing. Ty is sitting beside her and has his arm around her. He looks up at me, his bottom lip quivering, tears brimming in his big cocoa-brown eyes. "She says her mom's taking her away."

 _"What?"_  I whisper, a coldness forming in the pit of my stomach. I cross the room and kneel down in front of Shelby. "What are you talking about, kiddo? Nobody's taking you away."

Shelby snuffles. "Mom said to—to get my stuff packed—that we're—lea—leaving!" She lifts her head and looks up at me, her agonized, red-rimmed eyes wide, tears streaming from them in an endless river. "I don't wanna go, Jared!" she wails.

The cold spot inside me grows. I grind my teeth together, glancing at Tyrell who looks almost as devastated as Shelby does. "I don't know what this is about, but I'll find out, kiddo," I assure her. "Stay here with Ty, and I'll go talk to your mom and find out what's going on. Okay?"

"I—I told her I'm not go—going," Shelby whispers brokenly. "I said this—this is my ho—home and she yelled at me. She said this isn't our home and it never w—was."

 _Oh, Jesus, Lanie. What the fuck?_  "Stay here," I repeat firmly. "Dry your tears, hang here with Ty and I'll straighten everything out."

Shelby nods. "Okay."

I get to my feet, a numbness crawling over me, and leave the room. I return to Kristov's where I meet Jimmy at the door. "Everything all right, Mr. Leto?" he murmurs, glancing over my shoulder in the direction of his son's room.

I press my lips together and breathe in deeply through my nose. "Yeah," I answer, my voice tight. I look around him at Kristov, who's laying facing slightly away from me. "He took the antibiotic?"

Jimmy nods. "Yeah. But he won't let me near the incision."

"Probably best to let him be," I say. "I have to go to the main house for a little while, but I'll be back."

 

***

 

I walk through the near-dark gloom back to the house, my head spinning. Christ! Sure, we're both upset for more than one reason, but Lanie is not someone prone to rash actions like this. Surely Shelby misunderstood what Lanie said to her. She had to have.

Any hope of that vanishes the minute I step through the front door. Lanie rounds the corner and stops short in front of me, sliding her battered old pack down on the floor. She doesn't meet my eyes.

"Lanie," I say slowly,"what the hell is going on here?"

"We're leaving," she answers, crossing her arms in front of her chest, still refusing to look at me. "We're going back to Minnesota."

The saliva in my mouth dries up as I stare at my wife, and I fumble around for a response. I settle for a simple, "Why?"

She snorts, gives me a funny little smile and shakes her head. "Let's not fuck around with questions about why when we both know the answer to that."

I swallow hard, and there's a dry click in my throat. My heart races erratically in my chest, and my voice is strangled as I say, "Do you really believe that whatever issues we're having are going to be solved by just taking off?"

Lanie's eyes hood over. "I do. I fucked up, and I have to go home, track down Shae, and make it right. I owe you that much."

"You don't have to go all the way back to Minnesota to do that, you know." I take a step toward her. "And dragging Shelby with you? What the hell is the point of that?"

Lanie finally looks up at me. "Because finding Shae and making her retract that story is only part of why I'm going home." She pauses and takes a deep breath, gesturing vaguely. "It was inevitable, Jared. Sooner or later. We both know that."

I let out a long, shaking breath. "So you're not just leaving—you're leaving  _me."_  I clench my hands into fists. "Just say it, Lanie. You want out of our marriage."

"I don't know, but I need to go home for awhile," she whispers. "I need some time. I'm not happy, and if you'd paid the slightest bit of attention, you'd have known that without me telling you."

"If this is because of Kristov—"

"It's not only because of Kristov." She grits her teeth together. "It's a lot more than that."

"Then what the fuck is it?" My voice raises. "Tell me, and we can work through it. Give me a chance to fix it, for Christ's sake!"

She shakes her head. "You can't fix this, Jared. It's everything. And it's me, too. I realized that I'm never going to fit into the lifestyle you live."

"You don't know that. You haven't been here long enough—"

"It's not about  _time!"_  she cries. "I'm not cut out to be the wife of a guy who lives twenty-four-seven in a goddamned bubble, under constant public scrutiny, doing this fake relationship bullshit with some other woman, everything always micromanaged by a team of  _people,_ a husband who's away for months on tour, flying all over the world." She looks down at the floor and her voice quivers as she adds, softer, "I'm not like Emily—I can't be like her, and you and I, we're not like Chris and Emily and we will never be."

"Maybe we're not like them, but who says we're  _supposed_  to be? I mean they're  _them,_  and we're—" I step toward her and grasp her arms. The tension in her body reverberates into mine. "Lanie, please—"

She steps away from me, shaking off my hold. "I don't belong here, and I'm going crazy. I need to go home for awhile. I have things I need to take care of there, not just with Shae. I have to do something with my property—sell it, rebuild it, I don't know yet—but Shelby and I are leaving. I want to go back to Minnesota where we belong, where I can breathe and just be who and what I am. I miss that, and I can't do that in this place, and I never will. I'm  _suffocating_  here, Jared!"

Both Lanie's eyes and voice, though full of emotion, are shutting me out. I feel like I'm drowning, helpless, unable to control my own emotions that spill over and run down my cheeks. "Lanie, please don't do this," I whisper. "You can go on tour with us in March. I'll call the Valkov's bluff and let them do what they want with those fucking pictures. I'll make other arrangements for Kristov, too. I'll buy him a place if he needs me to. I'll move Gene and David in with him. Fuck, I won't ever see or talk to him again, if that's what you want."

She stares at me and her voice is bitter as she says, "I don't want you to change your life for mine, Jared, or you'll be as miserable as I am and you'll resent and hate me for it. As for Kristov, I told you—this is not only about him. But you keep bringing him into it as if he is the only thing that matters!" Her eyes narrow into tiny slits, and there's venom in her voice as she continues, "But I guess that's understandable, isn't it? Lately he  _has_  been the only thing that matters to you!" She takes a deep breath. "Where's my daughter? Did she run back to Jimmy's?"

"Yes, and she's hysterical." On the verge of hysteria myself, I add, "Jesus Christ, Lanie, why didn't you tell me about feeling suffocated before? Why did it have to come to  _this,_  and  _especially_  like this, when it's hurting Shelby?"

Cursing under her breath, Lanie starts for the door, brushing past me as if I'm not even there, as if she didn't hear a word I just said. "I just fucking told her I don't want her anywhere near that man."

I reach out and grab her arm before she can do more than open the door, and I spin her around to face me. "Look, Lanie. If you really want to walk out on me, I can't stop you. I know that. If you really wanna go, then fucking go. But why that little girl? She didn't do anything to deserve getting yanked from her home, her school, her friends and family—"

Lanie's eyes blaze. Through clenched teeth she snaps,  _"Your_  home.  _Your_  family. But she's  _my_  kid, Jared. You have no legal claim to her. You haven't adopted her, so what makes you think you have any right to tell me where I can and cannot take her?"

 _"I'm not going!"_  Shelby shrieks as she appears in the doorway. "I don't  _wanna_  go and I'm not  _gonna_  go!"

Lanie turns from me to face her daughter, her lips forming a tight, thin line. "There you are. Go upstairs and pack your stuff—"

 _"Go to hell!"_  Shelby screams. "You can't make me go anywhere with you!" She throws her arms around me and burrows herself into my chest. "Jared please, don't let her take me away from you!"

"It's okay, kiddo," I murmur as I wrap her in a tight, comforting embrace, but I keep my eyes on Lanie. She's staring at Shelby in my arms, mounting fury evident in her eyes, her tight expression, and her stiff body language. I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice level. "Lanie, you need to calm down and think about what you're doing. Shelby doesn't want to leave, can't you see that? You can't just—"

"The  _hell_  I can't!" Lanie explodes, eyes flashing. "I'm her  _mother,_  Jared. What kind of mother would let her stay here so she can watch you doing sick depraved shit with that fucking  _faggot_ — "

Recoiling like I've been shot, I suck in a hiss of air and Lanie's eyes widen in horror. She presses her trembling fingers over her lips. But it's too late to take it back, and a part of me dies right here on the spot. My stomach twists in knots. My eyes burn with a fresh onslaught of tears, but I refuse to shed them. I let my anger take control instead. "Wow, Lanie." My voice is like ice. "Just. Fucking.  _Wow."_

Lanie's throat works. "Oh, God. Jared, I didn't mean to say that," she says softly. "I—I just—"

"Actually, no. I think you  _did_  mean to say it." I stroke Shelby's hair, my heart shattering into a million pieces. "I think you meant every vile, homophobic word you said."

I don't think I could feel any more detached from the woman I married than I do right now, but Shelby quickly corrects that assumption. Wriggling out of my arms, Shelby turns, jabbing a finger in her mother's face as she hisses, "You sounded just like Dad." Lanie begins to speak, but Shelby cuts her off, snarling, "You don't even  _care_  about Jared, do you? You never  _did!_  If it wasn't for me, Jared wouldn't even be alive, Mom, and you  _know_ it."

Flinching, Lanie looks down at Shelby. Her eyes are huge and filled with a new emotion that looks a whole lot like guilt. From blurting out her true feelings she's kept hidden about my sexuality? Or is it something else?

Her voice shaking, Lanie says,"Shelby, stop it right now. I'm not going to tell you again. Shut your mouth, go upstairs and—"

 _"You left him!"_  Shelby screams, jabbing her finger at Lanie again. "You knew he was there, you heard him screaming for help, but you ran away and you left him there to  _die! I_ went back to find him! If I hadn't, Jared would've died there on that ledge! But you didn't care! You didn't care about him then and you don't care about him  _now!"_

Lanie covers her face. Ice forms in my veins and my heart rises in my throat. "Lanie," I whisper shakily. "Is this true?"

Her words are muffled, but I hear them clearly, each one of them a deep stab to the heart. "Shelby—honey, you know why I had to do that. It could've been anyone—I couldn't risk it."

"Oh, my God," I whisper. I sag against the wall by the open door, closing my eyes as vertigo rushes in, my whole world tilting on its axis with sickening force. It's like the floor is cracking under my feet and I'm falling from that canyon wall all over again. Only this time it's not my leg that breaks. It's something far,  _far_ more agonizing, something much more vital, and I can only whisper again, "Oh, my God."

 

***

 

In the bedroom, I stuff a change of clothes into a canvas shopping bag. My actions are automatic, numb and detached, and a part of me wonders why the hell  _I'm_  the one packing a bag now. Although I suppose technically I'm not leaving, since Jimmy's place is part of my property.

Lanie's Jeep is gone. I don't know where she went, but I know she hasn't  _left-_ left. Not yet, anyway. And Shelby's still here. If I have anything to say about it, she'll remain here no matter what Lanie says and does. Before she took off, Lanie told me she's leaving for Minnesota first thing in the morning, after she and Shelby have gotten some sleep. I only gave her a silent nod in reply, not saying the words that ached to spew forth—that her departure will come not a moment too soon for me.

_You don't mean that._

_The hell I don't. She's killed my soul._

_No, she hasn't. If she had, none of this would hurt so much._

"Bullshit," I whisper. Grabbing my toothbrush from the bathroom, a charger for my phone and my laptop from the table on my side of the bed, I leave the bedroom, closing the door behind me as I shove the things into the bag on top of the clothes already in there.

Fucking hell. Just like that, my life has taken a free-fall into complete devastation.

I want to call Shannon and cry my heart out to him. I need my brother more than I've ever needed him before, but he's hundreds of miles to the north, settling into domestic bliss with his girlfriend. Who could've guessed that he'd been right about Lanie all along? Certainly not me. Nope, instead I've been the schmuck of the century, a fact I'm sure Shannon won't hesitate to rub in my face once he catches wind of the chaos my marriage has become.

Yeah. Chaos is an understatement.

I step into the foyer and see Lanie's pack still there, leaning against the wall. Staring at it, overwhelmed with both sorrow and anger, the weight almost drives me to my knees right there in the entryway.

But it doesn't. Instead I keep going, leaving the house and locking it behind me, making my way through the darkened grounds lit only by the in-ground solar lights showing me the way past the pool to Jimmy's door.

"Shelby fell asleep on Ty's bed," Jimmy informs me as I step inside. "I made up a bed for Ty on the floor in there, so you can have the couch out here. It's pretty comfortable even for me, so..." His eyes are sad as he looks me over. "You okay?"

Good question. I'm falling the fuck apart, and I'm sure it shows. "I'll be okay," I murmur. "How's Kristov doing?"

"I gave him some of his pain meds after helping him to the bathroom about an hour ago," Jimmy replies. "He's probably sleeping, or he soon will be."

"Okay," I nod. "I'm gonna go check on him, and then crash. It's been a long fucking day."

Jimmy's eyes are darkly sympathetic. "Shelby told me what's up. I'm sorry about all this, boss." He sighs. "Ms. Lanie loves you, though. I know that. Y'all will work it out. Just give it some time. 'N if you need to talk, I'm a good listener. I been through this myself too, remember."

"Yeah," I mumble and step up to give him a hug. "Thanks for letting me crash here."

Jimmy's chest rumbles with laughter under my cheek. "This is part of your house too, ain't it?"

I sigh, and then smile against his broad chest. "Yeah, but even so, thanks."

I make my way back to the hall, my bag slung over my shoulder. Stopping at Tyrell's bedroom door, I open it to peek inside, making out the lump on the floor that is Tyrell, huddled under a layer of blankets. On the bed is another lump of similar size. It's very quiet in the room, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in, and I'm loathe to disturb the kids since tomorrow is a school day and they've got to be exhausted, especially Shelby. I reflect on the way she stood strong, refusing to back down an inch, and I shake my head. Jesus, what a tough kid she is. I quietly close the door and continue on to the guest bedroom.

Kristov is still awake, though his eyelids look a bit droopy. The TV on the dresser is on, tuned to an old black-and-white movie. As I step in, his eyes dart to from the screen to me. "Hi," he murmurs.

"Hey," I say, dropping my bag on the floor by the dresser.

Kristov follows the movement, his eyes fixed on the bag. "What's that?" he asks groggily.

I chew my bottom lip as I consider what to reply, and then I settle for the truth. "Just some of my stuff. A change of clothes, my laptop, shit like that."

Kristov's brows knit together. "You're sleeping here at Jimmy's?"

"Yep." I step around the dresser and glance at the TV. "Watching a Bogie film, huh? I remember how much you love the classics." I kick off my Vans and drop them at the foot of the bed, looking back at the TV. "This is  _The Big Sleep,_  isn't it? God, I haven't watched this one in years. Hope I didn't miss too much."

"It just started, but Jared—" Kristov's eyes are fixed on mine— "why are you sleeping here and not at your own place?"

I smirk, remembering my conversation with Jimmy just now. "This wing is part of my house too, you know." I sit on the edge of the bed, about midway down so as not to obstruct Kristov's view of the TV. "We need a big fucking bowl of popcorn and lots of tea.  _Gallons."_

Kristov sighs, picks up the remote and shuts off the television. "Something happened with you and Lanie. Don't try to bullshit me, Jared. I can read your face clearly."

My shoulders slump. "It's not what you think it is, Kris. It's not really about you, so don't go there," I say wearily. "But yeah, something happened." I scoot up on the bed so I'm sitting next to Kristov, and gesture at the now dark television. "Look—just put the movie back on, relax, and don't worry about me and Lanie."

"Not until you tell me what's going on," Kristov says, his dark eyes probing mine. "And don't give me that shit that it isn't really about me. I don't believe that."

Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair and slump back against the headboard. "Fuck's sake," I growl. "Okay. If you really want to know, Lanie's leaving me in the morning. Okay?" Kristov's eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. "I begged her not to, but then some shit came out during the argument. Shit I never knew about before. And so right now, I'm pretty fucking glad she's made that decision, as long as she doesn't take my stepdaughter with her. That's it." I reach over, grab the remote from Kristov's hand and flip the TV back on.

"Oh, God, Jared! No!" Kristov gasps, still staring up at me. Though his voice is a bit groggy and slurring from the pain meds, there's still strength behind it. He struggles to sit up, and lets out a woosh of air, his face contorted with pain.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "What the hell are you doing?" I put my hands on his shoulders to restrain him, and ease him back down on his pillow. "You're gonna hurt yourself, you idiot!"

Kristov grimaces, clutching at his abdomen. His voice strained, he asks, "How can you possibly say this wasn't because of me?"

"Because it  _wasn't_  because of you. Not really." I look down at him, read the doubt in his eyes and I continue with as much reassurance as I can, "I swear, Kris, this wasn't only because of you. And even if it was—" I shake my head— "another side of Lanie I've never seen or heard before came out tonight, and I can't ignore that." I draw my knees up to my chest. "And so, here I am. Watching a Bogie movie with you, and we're missing all the good stuff, so let's shut up and watch it." I manage a smile. "You think Jimmy's got any popcorn? I should go ask him."

Kristov gazes up at me, shaking his head in disapproving amazement. "Your wife is leaving you and you're sitting here with me watching a stupid old movie and talking about popcorn. You're crazy, Jared."

Jimmy does indeed have popcorn. Even the unbuttered kind, which is a huge bonus. I throw a bag in the microwave, removing it carefully when it's done. Meanwhile Jimmy is at the bank of computer screens that take up a corner of his living room. These computers connect to the alarm system and the closed-circuit cameras scattered around my property.

"Everything cool?" I ask him over my shoulder. It's past ten, a little late in the evening for tea, and so I help myself to a couple of water bottles from the well-stocked fridge.

"Yup." Jimmy shifts a little in his chair. "Ms. Lanie ain't back yet."

"Okay." I tuck the water bottles under my arm and pick up the steaming bag of popcorn from the counter.

"Let me know when you're ready to sleep, and I'll switch over the monitors to the ones in my bedroom," Jimmy offers.

"It's cool. Take your time," I answer, and I return to Kristov's room.

I've only missed the first twenty or thirty minutes of  _The Big Sleep_ , and so it's easy to settle in next to Kristov, popcorn bag between us, water bottle between my knees, and absorb myself in the movie. I give Kristov the other water bottle and shush him when he tries to probe further into what happened between Lanie and me, insisting that he take another dose of colloidal silver which I pour into the dosage cup for him. He takes it, chases it with a healthy swig of water, and settles into his pillow with a sigh, his eyelids droopier than ever.

Honest to God, it wasn't my intention to fall asleep next to Kristov. But exhausted and filled with popcorn, Kristov snoring quietly next to me, I find I'm too into the movie and too comfortable to think about going out to the living room. I pick up the empty popcorn bag and put it on the floor in front of me as the scene when Marlowe reveals he knows about the blackmail against Vivian plays out. My back is aching a bit though, and so I shift so I'm fully reclined on my side, my head resting on my outstretched arm. With Kristov's body heat radiating into my back, feeling warm and snug, my eyelids flutter closed. By the time Mars is gunned down by his own men outside of Geiger's house, I'm out cold.


	18. Jared

When I awaken, it's well before sunrise. The only light in the room is the muted glow of distant city lights filtering in through the window next to the bed. The TV's black and silent. Jimmy must have come in sometime during the night and turned it off.

I'm more asleep than awake, but even in that semi-conscious state I can't fool myself into thinking that I'm in my own bed, that it's Lanie close beside me with her neck nestled in the crook of my shoulder, that it's her hand, covered with my own, resting on my chest directly over my heart. For one thing, the long hair draped over me is a different texture than Lanie's. I comb it away from my eyes and then turn my head to look down at Kristov's face so near to mine.

Even in the dim light of the room, I can clearly make out his features. His soft breath tickles my cheek and the rough texture of his neatly trimmed whiskers brush against my neck. I study the vision of him just inches away...the long lashes, the smooth skin and perfectly formed lips, begging to be touched, to be kissed awake.

I shift a little, but Kristov doesn't stir. As I come to full awareness I realize his head and his hand aren't the only parts of him pressed up against me; the entire length of his body is as well. Even our legs are intertwined. The queen-sized bed may as well be a twin for all the space we're taking up in it, but I wonder how and when I'd moved from on top of the comforter to join Kristov underneath both it and the sheet.

I turn again and gaze up through the dark at the ceiling for a few minutes, absorbing the sensation of Kristov's warmth and nearness. Memories of long-ago mornings flood my entire being...ghosts of gentle touches, slow awakenings, and sleepy-eyed smiles. I allow myself a few luxurious moments to drift along with it.

I really don't want to move, don't want to break this quiet, mesmerizing spell, but I know I have to. Especially before Lanie comes banging on Jimmy's door. I'm surprised she hasn't already, especially since she made it clear that she doesn't want Shelby anywhere near Kristov.

_Maybe she's already come. Maybe she's collected Shelby and left without a word._

I dismiss that possibility as quickly as it enters my mind. No way would Jimmy allow that to happen without waking me. Besides, Shelby would most certainly put up a hell of a loud fight if Lanie were to try taking her by force. But still, I need to get up. I need to piss, and that gives me another compelling reason to untangle myself from Kristov and slip carefully from the bed. Away from his warmth I shiver with a sudden chill, despite being fully clothed. I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me before turning on the light. Then, wincing at the glare, I untie my track pants, sighing with relief as I empty my aching bladder.

Finished, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, catching a glimpse of my disheveled, squinty-eyed reflection in the mirror. Last night's confrontation with Lanie replays itself in my head minute by minute. God, what I wouldn't give to have a do-over, some way to erase it all, to unhear all those bitter, angry, hurtful words. They're clamoring in my head again, and I suspect they will for some time to come.

_Sick...depraved...fucking faggot..."_

_You knew he was there...you left him there to die..._

Jesus! How could I have been so deaf, blind, and fucking stupid?

My eyes burn and my throat closes up. I grip the edge of the sink, my fingers curling around the cold, smooth porcelain. Slowly and with a mighty effort, I gain control over my flailing emotions. Then I sigh deeply and shake my head. Shutting off the light, I leave the bathroom, grab my phone from the dresser and check the time. It's not even five yet. It's too early to call Shannon, but I need to. Later, at a decent hour when I know he's up, and after I've talked to Lanie—calmly, rationally, and hopefully we can reach some kind of mutual understanding. One that'll allow Shelby to stay with me.

Unread texts and social media notifications light up my phone, but I don't look at any of them. Instead, I look from my phone screen to Kristov. I've spent enough nights with him that I can tell by his regular, deep pulls of breath that he's still deeply asleep. I pocket my phone and tip-toe out of the bedroom, down the hall to Ty's closed bedroom door. I open it a crack and peek inside, my heart thudding at the possibility, however implausible, that Lanie came and grabbed Shelby sometime during the night.

The moonlight's gone now so it's even darker in Ty's room. My eyes soon adjust though, and I clearly make out the two child-sized lumps, exactly where they were last night; one on the floor, the other on the bed. I let out my breath, a little dizzy with relief. I still can maybe stop this madness, though knowing Lanie's propensity for getting up before the sun, coupled with how determined she is to leave, that time is quickly running out. I return to Kristov's room, grope around for my shoes and slip them on. Then I make my way out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room. I step outside, closing the door quietly behind me.

It's a cool and fresh morning, the scents of earth and dew in the air, and the sky has yet to lighten. Rounding the corner of the compound, I stop as the sight of Lanie's Jeep comes into view, illuminated by the lights over the portico. The back hatch is open and Lanie's pack is inside the cargo compartment it along with a few other bags. The sight makes everything undeniably real, and I can feel a creeping sort of coldness inside me.

_So, this is it. Okay. You were just fine before she came into your life, and that was just a few months ago. You'll get over this in no time._

I swallow past something hard and painful in my throat before continuing on into the house.

Just like the night before, I run into Lanie in the foyer. She's carrying Shelby's pack, so full the sides are bulging. She's dressed in a pair of old jeans and t-shirt; in fact, she's wearing the exact same clothes she was wearing the first time I laid eyes on her in Oak Creek Canyon. Her hair's tied back in a ponytail, but several strands have escaped. She looks harried and determined.

"Where is she?" Lanie demands without preamble. Her eyes are stone-cold as she stares at me. She's very pale, and there are lines of weariness and strain etched in her face. I wonder if she's slept at all. "Where's my daughter, Jared?"

I cross my arms and lean my shoulder and hip against the wall. "At Jimmy's. Still asleep, and so I think now would be a good time to talk some shit out."

Lanie's face closes as she attempts to brush past me. "There's nothing to talk about. And I have no time for it. We have to leave."

"Lanie—" I reach for her but she evades my hand and darts out the door. I follow her, trying again. "Come on, Lanie!"

She throws Shelby's pack in the Jeep and immediately sets off towards Jimmy's, throwing a look over her shoulder at me. God, she's so cold, and there's something in her eyes, swirling like a pent-up storm. Her voice is sharp as she says, "I'm getting my daughter, and we're leaving, Jared. Right now."

I stand next to the Jeep, hands on my hips, staring at her retreating form as the darkness swallows her up. Then I look at their belongings, packed and thrown haphazardly in the vehicle. I can hardly believe this may well be the last time I see either of them.

But Lanie reappears just moments later, running toward me, and Shelby's not with her. Instead Jimmy's right on her heels, trying to yank a t-shirt over his big body. Both of them are wide-eyed and panicked-looking. Lanie's clutching something in her hand that looks like a piece of paper.

"They're gone!" she gasps as she reaches me. She shoves the piece of paper in my face. "Shelby and Tyrell. Goddammit, Jared, they've run away!"  
  


 

***

 

Thanks to the security cameras' recording capabilities, we quickly discover that the kids took off at around three in the morning, just an hour or so after Jimmy went to bed. A quick look in Tyrell's bedroom with the light on reveals their ingenuity; pillows and clothes stuffed in the places where they'd been sleeping, intended to fool anyone who might've checked on them during the night.

They left on their bikes. Once they opened the front gate and rode off, they disappeared into the night, the cameras picking up nothing but shadows. Their phones are gone, but multiple calls to both of them go unanswered.

"Christ," Lanie mutters, pacing back and forth across Jimmy's living room. She throws both Jimmy and I an accusing glare. "How could you guys have not heard them leave? How the  _fuck_ could you let this  _happen?"_ She stops in front of me, pointing a finger in my face, her voice growing strident. "These two kids— _my_   _daughter_ — is out running around fucking Los Angeles in the dark, and neither of you had any idea they even left! And you want Shelby to  _stay_ with you?"

"Lanie," I say, keeping my voice low. "Knock it the fuck off. They're on bikes, but they couldn't have gone too far. We need to call the police. They'll find the kids in no time."

Lanie's eyes grow alarmed and her face becomes even more ashen. _"No!_  No cops. I'm going to go find them myself."

I tap Shelby's note with my index finger. "She spelled out everything in this note. She ran away because she doesn't want to go back to Minnesota, and she made it clear that if you force her to go with you, she'll just run away again. Probably at your first stop at a gas station." I get to my feet. "Listen to me, Lanie. Isn't it obvious what this is doing to her, or do you just not care how she feels?"

Lanie whirls on me, eyes blazing. "Do not _ever_  accuse me of not caring about my daughter, Jared." She heads for the door, throwing me an acidic look as she yanks it open. "I'm going to go look for them." She steps outside, and the door slams closed behind her, making me wince.

I look at Jimmy and he stares back at me as I sink into the couch again. "Fuck," I mutter. I know Shelby's a resourceful, independent kid. She's tough and smart, but still, she's only eleven and she's nowhere near streetwise enough to be wandering around L.A. in the middle of the night, even if Tyrell's there to watch out for her. A myriad of horrible possibilities flood my mind, and I bury my face in my hands, feeling sick and helpless.

There's a rustle of movement and Jimmy's footsteps approach. "The kids are fine," Jimmy says quietly, laying a big but gentle hand on my arm. "They both took their phones, and if they ran into trouble they'd have called. I know Ty would. But I promise you, I'm gonna bust that boy's ass for this."

I shake my hair out of my face. "No, Jimmy. This was Shelby's idea. Tyrell didn't do anything wrong. Unless being a loyal friend is wrong. In fact, I kind of admire the kid for sticking with her."

Jimmy snorts, and then goes back to his chair. He looks at the door as the distant sound of the Jeep's engine roars. "Man...she's pissed, boss."

I look up at him, and I know he's not talking about Shelby. "Yeah," I nod. "She is."

"Does she have reason to be?" Jimmy's eyes flit for the briefest second toward the hall leading to the bedrooms and then back to me. It's so quick that it might be my imagination. But then, he did come into the bedroom and shut off the TV, so...

I rub my face and sigh wearily. "That's not really important right now, is it?" I get to my feet and begin pacing like Lanie was just a few moments ago. "Look, I can't just sit here, Jimmy. One of us should go look for the kids, too. And I don't give a fuck that Lanie doesn't want the cops involved, I'm calling them. I should've called them in the first place." Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I wake it and begin to dial 911. But I only press the first two numbers before an incoming call interrupts me.

I stare at the caller's name, frowning. Chris Pine? Why would he be calling at this ungodly hour?

There's only one reason I can think of. It's something about Alex. It has to be.  _Shit, I really don't have time for this right now._

Gulping, I swipe to answer the call anyway, uttering a cautious, "Hello?"

"Jared," Chris says, sounding remarkably wide awake. "You're up?"

I stop pacing. "Yeah. What's going on, man?" I ask, bouncing on the balls of my feet impatiently.

"I was hoping you could tell me that." There's a hesitation, and then he continues, "Shelby and Tyrell are here at my house."

My knees feel like they're about to buckle under me. I stagger back to the couch and sink into it, holding my head in my free hand. Jimmy looks at me, wide-eyed, and I give him an "OK" sign and a nod. Jimmy's eyebrows raise and he slumps back in his chair, giving an audible sigh of relief as he casts his eyes at the ceiling.

"Thank God," I whisper, closing my eyes. "They're okay?"

"Worn out, and Shelby's pretty emotional, but yeah, they're both fine. Physically, at least. Shelby had quite a story to tell, though."

"I don't doubt she did."

"So, it's true? Lanie's taking Shelby and leaving you?" Chris's voice is low and tight. "I mean, Jesus, Jared, ordinarily I'd say this is none of my business, but I've got a couple of exhausted, scared kids here and so—"

"I have to call Lanie and let her know. She just left to go find them. Jimmy and I will be there as soon as we can."

"There's no rush," Chris says. "Ems is already in the process of feeding them breakfast and trying to calm Shelby down."

I chew my bottom lip and think. "As soon as I tell Lanie, she'll probably fly right over there and want to take her and go. I'll ask her to give it some time, but I doubt she will. I did my damnedest last night, and she wouldn't budge."

"Maybe Ems could try and talk some sense into her." Chris pauses and then says, "I mean, I'm not sure it would help, but it's worth a shot, isn't it?"

I nod, though of course Chris can't see it. "Yeah. She sure worked a fucking miracle with Kristov." I get to my feet and walk down the hall to the guest bedroom. Kristov somehow has managed to sleep through the arguing and the door slamming. That pain medication he's on must be some really heavy shit. Stepping away, I finish,"Anyway, I better call Lanie and let her know the kids are okay."

"All right, Jared. See ya later."

I end the call, and immediately call Lanie. She picks up on the first ring.

"What? Are they back?" The sound of traffic is loud in the background, but I can hear the hope in her voice.

"No, but I know where they are," I answer as I re-enter the living room."But Lanie—"

"Where? Is Shelby okay?" she demands.

"She's fine. But before I tell you where she is, I'm gonna ask you one more time to stop and reconsider all of this." I hear her suck in a hiss and before she can say a word, I forge on. "We were lucky, because Shelby had a place to go this time. If she runs off when you're in bumfuck Kansas gassing up the Jeep or something, she won't have a place to go. But that won't stop her, and we both know it."

"Jared." Lanie's teeth are clenched, I can hear it in her voice. "Just tell me where the fuck my kid is."

"Not until you agree to talk about this like calm, rational adults."

There's a long silence with nothing but traffic noise. Then a heavy sigh. "All right."

I start for the door, beckoning Jimmy to follow. "She's at Chris and Emily's."

A gasp. "They rode their bikes all the way to  _Los Feliz?_ How the hell did Shelby know how to get there? She's only been there that one time!"

"I don't know, but the important thing is that they're okay." I step outside, Jimmy on my heels. "Look—I'd like to have a conversation with you, Lanie. No yelling, no screaming, and no name-calling. Can we do that?"

Once again there's just the sound of traffic. Then, slowly, Lanie says, "Fine. I'll meet you at Chris and Emily's and we should talk for a minute or two, but no more than that." A hesitation, and an odd inflection creeps into her voice. "Because I need to give you something before I go."  
  


 

***

 

Chris is outside on the portico when Jimmy and I pull in, Wednesday at his side. Not surprisingly, Lanie has beat us here. Her Jeep is parked in the turnout, and she's standing with Emily near the front of it, leaning against the fender, looking down, arms wrapped around herself. None of the kids are anywhere in sight.

I can read Lanie's body language clearly. Even with her back to me, I can tell she's upset. She barely casts a glance over her shoulder at us before turning back to Emily. They're speaking in low voices, too low for me to hear what they're saying.

I slide out of the Pathfinder as Chris walks over to us. "The kids are in Mac's room, chilling and watching a movie," he says. His eyes dart to the women. "Lanie got here a few minutes ago and Ems has been trying to talk to her."

"Can I go in and talk to my boy?" Jimmy asks.

I put a hand on his big arm. "Remember what I said—Tyrell only did what a good friend would do."

"Hmph." Jimmy glances down at me, and then he follows Chris into the house. I hope he won't be too hard on the boy because, as I told him, I admire Ty for sticking with Shelby.

I turn my attention to Emily and Lanie. Squaring my shoulders, I start walking over to them just as Lanie sighs, "Look, Emily—I'm ready to get my daughter and leave." She throws a look over her shoulder at me, her expression stone-cold. "And you're not stopping me." She turns back to Emily. "I think I'm the best person to decide what's right for my own kid, and that's going home with me, back to where we both belong." She pauses and shoots me a glare. "And out of this fucked-up insanity."

 _"Insanity?"_  I scoff. "A home, a family who loves her, friends and everything she could possibly need or want—that's  _insanity?"_

"Oh, yes, throw your money in my face," Lanie seethes. "I was wondering when you were gonna pull out that one." She pushes off from where she's leaning against the fender of the Jeep and points her finger at me. "Yeah, you can buy her anything she wants, but money can't buy  _everything,_  Jared. With all your issues, you're more proof of that than anyone."

I grit my teeth and force myself to remain calm. "Okay. I know there've been issues. I'll be the first to say we've had a tough go of it, Lanie, and I'm sorry. I could've handled my shit better than I did, yeah, but—"

 _"That's_  an understatement." Lanie turns to Emily, who opens her mouth to say something. "Look, Emily. I know you mean well, but living up here in your perfect house with your perfect devoted husband playing happy little family—you haven't had to sit in the shadows while your husband paraded around in public with another woman to protect his precious image. Your husband isn't trying to stay in the closet, and yet he lets himself get manipulated by his  _fag ex-boyfriend_ to the point that he lets the guy move _in!"_

"Hey—" I interject. Her hateful words rip into me, striking deep and hard just as they did last night, and my first impulse is to lash out in kind. But Emily lays a restraining hand on my arm. At the same time, she fixes Lanie with a piercing stare.

"Oh my God...are you even listening to yourself?" she exclaims. "If I knew you were a bigot, I would've thought twice about persuading Kristov to take up Jared's offer."

 _Oh, shit._  Lanie takes a step back, staring open-mouthed at Emily. Then she lets out a sharp laugh, that coldness creeping into her eyes again. She glares at me, muttering, "Well. I should've known. I guess  _everyone's_  on Kristov's side, aren't they?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb and I sigh. "Lanie, please. This right now is about Shelby. Bringing Kristov and all this other shit into it isn't getting us anywhere."

There's a silence between the three of us. Lanie folds her arms across her chest and leans against the Jeep again, looking down for a moment. Then she raises her head, biting her bottom lip as she studies me. Finally, she says, "I know you love her." I don't miss her emphasis on the word 'her'. "But I'm her mother, Jared, and I love her, too. And yeah, maybe I can't give her the life of material privilege that you can, but until last September she did fine without that. And with your lifestyle—your career—" she gestures vaguely. "Have you forgotten that you've got a tour starting in March?"

"Of course I haven't!" I snap.

"Well, what the hell are you going to do during that time? Drag her all over Europe with you? Pull her out of school, away from her friends, all that stuff you seem to think is so important?"

"You could let her stay in L.A. until Jared leaves for the tour," Emily suggests to Lanie. "Maybe by then...I don't know...maybe by then y'all can figure out some of this other stuff between the two of you."

Lanie's eyes dart between Emily and me, but she doesn't answer that. Instead, she abruptly turns, opens the driver's side door of the Jeep and gets in. Laying both of her arms over the steering wheel, she rests her head against them, and she sits there quiet and still.

Emily and I exchange a glance. "I'm sorry about all of this," I murmur softly. "It was never my intention for us to spill our garbage into your front yard—" I look around us— "but we literally did."

Emily's blue eyes are kind and understanding, certainly more than they should be given what's been dumped on her, and I marvel again at what a remarkable woman she is. "It's okay. Why don't you go on in and see how Shelby's doing. I think she'd really love to see you right now. In the meantime, I'll try to talk to Lanie one-on-one a little more."

"You sure?" I glance at Lanie, who hasn't moved. "She's really been on a hair-trigger since yesterday."

Emily nods. "I can handle it."

 

***

 

 

Jimmy's sitting with Tyrell at the Pine's dining room table and it's clear by his forbidding expression and Ty's rather subdued one that he's been giving the boy a stern talking-to. As long as no ass-whooping is taking place, I'm good with a fatherly lecture.

Ty looks up at me as I stand in the archway. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Leto," he says, his big brown eyes teary and sincere. "But I couldn't let Shelby run off by herself."

I nod at him. "I know. I wish you'd woken your dad or me up instead, but thank you for being a good friend to her."

Tyrell's lower lip quivers, although given how red his eyes are, it looks like he's already cried buckets. "I don't want Shelby to go away," he squeaks out.

My throat knots up. I walk over and bend down to give Ty a hug. "Neither do I, and hopefully she won't have to."

Chris appears behind me. "How's Lanie doing?" he asks quietly.

I straighten and shake my head. "I wish I knew." Together he and I stroll back through the living room. "God, Chris. Like I told Emily, I'm sorry all this landed on you. You guys didn't need this craziness."

Chris gives me a half-smile. "Well, when our kids conspire together, it's kind of hard not to get involved."

I raise an eyebrow.  _"Our_  kids conspire? You mean Mac was in on this?"

"Not exactly, but Shelby called her in the middle of the night, going on about how they'd run off and why, and that they'd made it to the Santa Monica Pier. But they were getting scared because of the creepy people hanging around and sleeping on the beach, but they were too tired to go anywhere else."

"Oh, Christ," I mutter, both appalled and amazed. "Santa Monica Pier is a hell of a ride from my house, too. They must have taken the Exposition Corridor bike path to make it there."

Chris chuckles. "They're a couple of resourceful kids. Shelby told Mac she wanted to get an Uber to come here. That's when Mac came and woke me and Ems up and told us what's going on. Mac gave me the phone and I told Shelby to stay put, and that I was on my way."

I absorb this, hardly able to believe Shelby and Tyrell had managed to get about fifteen miles from home, somehow navigating the winding route that would eventually get them to the bike path and then to the pier. Looking up at Chris as we head down the hall to Mac's bedroom, I can only say, "Thank you."

The minute I open the door, Shelby leaps off Mac's bed where she's sitting talking with Mac, and she hurls herself into my arms. "Jared," she squeaks against my chest. "Please don't be mad at me. I'm so sorry for running away! Please don't be mad!"

"Hey Mac," Chris says. "Why don't you and I go take Wednesday out in the backyard."

"Okay," Mac agrees, climbing off her bed. As she passes Shelby, she gives her a reassuring pat on the back. Chris and I exchange an almost imperceptible nod and then he and Mac walk away.

I sigh and stroke Shelby's hair. "Christ, kiddo! I'm not mad, but you scared the shit out of us, you know that? A kid your age, running around L.A. in the middle of the night? I mean, anything could've happened to you!"

Shelby's voice is muffled. "I can take care of myself."

"Maybe so." I draw away so I can look down at her. "But you shouldn't have to."

Her eyes, so much like her mother's except the color, lock on mine. "If she makes me leave with her, I'll just run away again. Did she read my note? Cuz that's what I said, and I meant it."

Even though it hurts my back, I bend down so we're eye-level. "Shelby, I want you to promise me something."

Shelby stares back at me, wide-eyed. "What?"

"That if you do have to go with your mom—"

"I'm  _not!"_  Shelby insists. Her eyes grow even larger, and they begin to shine with tears.

"Listen to me!" I hold her by her shoulders. "Promise me that if you need anything —I don't give a damn what it is—that you'll call me. Day or night, whether I'm here or I'm on the other side of the planet. I want you to call me. You got it?"

Shelby's tears spill over and run down her cheeks, but she nods, uttering a choked-out "Yes."

"I love you, kiddo." I pull her into my arms again. "No matter what happens with your mom and me, I love you."

Shelby's clings to me, her face buried in my shoulder, her voice high-pitched and tight again. "I love you, too, Jared."

A few minutes later we step out the front door and stand on the portico. My insides are twisted in a knot, feeling the indescribable loss crashing in already. There's no way I can hope that Emily has convinced Lanie to allow Shelby to remain with me, and I'm prepared for her to grab her daughter and leave in a manner of a minute or two from now. At least I tell myself I'm prepared, though God knows I'm not. I'm not at all prepared.

I may not have children of my own, but I've come to understand that kind of love, to know that kind of bond, and I feel it in every fiber of my being. To have it ripped away now? It's going to hurt for a very long time. It's a hurt that I can't imagine ever leaving me.

I glance down at Shelby. She's clinging to my hand but her focus is on her mother, standing at the tailgate of the Jeep and watching us with hooded eyes. Emily is walking back toward the house, offering me little in the way of a clue, but it's obvious that both women have been crying. Taking a deep breath, I urge Shelby forward with me. She's dragging her feet, her expression stoic, and she's chewing her bottom lip to still its quivering.

Lanie's eyes are fixed on her daughter. "Shelby," she begins. "I know how hard this is. It's hard for me, too." She glances up at me briefly, and then back at Shelby. "I want you to know that none of this is your fault."

"So then why are you punishing me?" Shelby demands.

"This is not about punishing you," Lanie says softly. "It's  _never_ been about punishing you. I only want what's best for you. What will make you truly happy."

"Staying here with Jared is what's best for me and what will make me happy, Mom!" Shelby cries, burrowing herself into my side.

Automatically I wrap my arm around her. My heart joins my stomach in the back of my throat and only by supreme effort and pressing my lips tightly together do I control the outburst of emotion on the verge of escape. I can't lose it in front of Shelby and make it that much worse for her. I just can't. I'll have all the time in the world to fall apart once they're gone.

Lanie's throat works. "Yes, I know," she whispers, so quietly I barely hear it. She turns and opens the hatch on the Jeep. Reaching in, she pulls out Shelby's pack and another bag, and holds them out to me. "Here. These are all of her things I packed."

Numbly, I take the pack and the bag, staring down at them in my hands, then up at Lanie in shocked disbelief. My lungs squeeze and I'm unable to say more than a breathy utterance of her name. "Lanie— "

She steps forward and grabs Shelby in a tight hug, murmuring, "Be good, Shel...I'll be back by the end of February and we'll see if we can figure out what to do long-term then, okay?"

Shelby hugs her mother back, bursting into a fresh onslaught of tears. "Mom—why can't you just stay here, too?" she cries. "I don't want you to go, either!"

Lanie looks over Shelby's shoulder at me. "I have to, honey. I have things I need to take care of back home, but I'll be back. And we can call and text and FaceTime as often as you want. I promise. Okay?" Shelby nods against her shoulder and Lanie releases her. "But listen...I need to talk to Jared for a minute. And then I want a few more minutes with you before I go, okay?"

Shelby takes her bags from me and slowly walks back to the portico, throwing several glances over her shoulder at us. She's crying, but her sobs are silent now.

I'm still at a complete loss for words. I fumble around for something to say, but I can only utter a stunned, quiet, "Wow." Trying again, I add, "I-I don't know what to say, Lanie. I really wasn't expecting this."

Lanie's response is a half-smile that looks more like a grimace. "Yeah. Neither was I." She studies me, her voice gentler than it's been in a long time as she says, "Promise me you'll take care of her, Jared. And yourself, too."

"Of course." I reach out for her— tohug her, kiss her, I'm not sure— but she evades the gesture, darting to the front of the Jeep on the passenger side. She opens the door, reaches in and pulls out a large manila envelope, which she places in my hands.

"What is this?" I look over the envelope, frowning in confusion. My last name is written on it in block letters in black marker.

Lanie gives me another of those pained smiles, the one that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's your freedom."

My confusion deepens. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I know you don't. But you will when you open it." She shuts the Jeep's door.

"You want me to open it now?" I ask, fiddling with the envelope flap.

"You can, if you want to."

The envelope isn't sealed, so it's just a matter of pulling the flap back and looking inside at the contents. When I do, a thickness seems to form in the air around me. It's suddenly difficult to take a full breath because if I do, I'll let it out in a volley of screams.

"Oh, my God," I whisper. "Did you— " I look up at her as a series of awful, graphic visuals play themselves out in my head. I feel sick inside as I ask, "Is-is that where you were last night?" At her nod, her face very still, very composed, my knees want to give way under the weight of the agony slamming down on me. _"Why did you do this?"_

"Because it was the right thing to do," she answers. "I didn't even realize at the time going into it how right it was. At the time, all I wanted was to try in some way to make up for the things I did and said to you." She wraps her arms around herself. "It was worth it."

"Oh, God, Lanie, nothing was worth that. I  _never_  wanted you to do this." Tucking the envelope under my arm, I step up to her and reach for her hand. At first she resists a little, but then her fingers curl around mine as I reach for her other hand. We hold them there at our sides standing just far enough apart to still look in each other's eyes. "I just want to say I'm sorry about my part in everything. Please believe that I never meant for any of this shit to happen."

"I know you didn't." Lanie lifts her chin a little, and her eyes glimmer in the early morning light. "But it happened. And I've known for a little while now that you were never truly invested in this relationship, and I know that marrying me was your way of trying to bandage a wound that should have healed a long time ago. But it didn't work."

I swallow hard. "That was never my intention, Lanie. I married you because I wanted to. Because I loved you. But now we've come to this. Some hard truths have come out, and really hurtful things were said that can never be unsaid. Whether they were spoken in anger or whether they were sincere, I'm not sure. But they were spoken, and can't be unheard. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with that."

Lanie looks away, chewing on her lip. "I know."

She doesn't apologize. Not that an apology will do much good at this point. I let go of her hands and stand facing her silently.

Lanie studies me, shaking her head slowly. "God, Jared, I don't get it. You're so talented, so driven, and so intelligent. In so many ways you're completely fearless." She shakes her head again. "And yet in other ways, you're ruled by fear. You're  _drowning_  in fear."

"Maybe you articulated part of the reason for that fear. Last night, and again just a little while ago." I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. I turn my face away, studying the eastern horizon, growing ever lighter over the treetops across the road. I watch it silently for a moment and then let out a tremulous sigh. "So...this is it, huh?"

"Yeah. This is it." Lanie looks at the envelope I still have tucked under my arm, and then meets my eyes again. They're still dry and filled with composure, an almost eerie calm. "About the pictures," she says, her gaze holding mine. "There's more, Jared."

"More? What do you mean?" I ask blankly.

She nods. "Much, much more. I don't know your safe combination or I'd have put everything in there. I stuck it all on the top shelf in the bedroom closet on the right hand side. Take care of it the instant you get home. Don't wait."

I shake my head, still confused. "I'm not following, Lanie."

"You will." Her eyes dart restlessly around, though there's not much to see, nothing moving in Chris and Emily's quiet neighborhood at this early hour except for birds and a cool light breeze filtering through my hair and my flannel shirt. "It's almost daylight, and I should've been long gone by now." Lanie nods toward the house. "Please go get my daughter, Jared. I'm ready to tell her goodbye."   
  



	19. Jared

It's hard for me to believe it's still as early as it is, with everything that's happened in the last few hours. Kristov is shuffling slowly back toward his bed from the bathroom when he stops and turns, a concerned expression crossing his face the instant he spots me standing there in the doorway.

"Are you all right?" He changes direction and approaches me, his worried expression deepening the closer he draws near. "God, you look exhausted." He lays gentle hands on my shoulders. "Have you been crying?"

I chew my bottom lip for a moment and then sigh, nodding. "Yeah."

"Did your wife..." Kristov hesitates, and then his voice softens. "Did she leave, Jared?"

I sigh and nod again as I step into the bedroom, making my way to the unmade bed. I sit on the edge of it and look down at my hands, clenched together between my knees. "Yeah. She's gone." 

Saying it out loud like that slams reality into me, a blunt punch to the gut. My own words are a kind of shock to the system, and the finality of it resonates inside me. My lungs constrict, my throat tightens, and my eyes sting. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, feeling utterly raw and stripped to the bone. Until this moment I've fought to maintain the best show of strength I'm capable of to match Lanie's own in the face of everything. I've forced myself to be strong for Shelby, too. But now that I'm alone with Kristov, that facade crumbles. I've craved a moment where I can allow myself to be weak, to give up the iron control of my emotions, to give in and let it all out. This is that moment. And so, for the next few minutes, that's exactly what I do.

Kristov sits next to me and pulls me gingerly against his body, and then he wraps his arms around me. Though mindful of his incision, I melt into his embrace as he allows me to sob against his shoulder. Only for a few moments, because a few moments is all I need. 

Then I pull myself together. I sit up, fumbling for the tissues Kristov grabs from the box on the nightstand, and he strokes my hair gently as I wipe my eyes and take a long, quivering breath."Shit," I mutter and blow my nose. "I'm sorry". Then I turn to Kristov, who's looking at me silently, but with grave concern. "She did it, Kris."

"She did what?" A frown crosses his face.

"She got the pictures back from Ivan. Which means she—" My mouth moves, trying to form the words, but nothing comes out. I gesture helplessly instead.

Kristov's eyes widen with comprehension. "Oh. Oh, my God, Jared."

"Yeah," I draw a painful, quivering breath. "She called it my  _freedom._ Can you believe that?"

Kristov gazes at me steadily, and very softly he says, "You should hate me so much."

I sniffle and look at him. "What?"

His depthless eyes don't waver. "Had I not given Katia those photos, none of this would have happened. There would have been no reason for Lanie to sleep with Ivan had I not done so." He grasps my chin firmly, his eyes boring into mine. "Why do you not hate me, Jared? What I did is  _unforgivable!_  You should hate me with every fiber of your being!"

I search Kristov's dark eyes, glimmering with emotion in the early morning light. They're riddled with guilt and sadness. I know he's right—I  _should_  hate him. From the moment we met again at the EMAs, I should've held nothing but bitter contempt for this man sitting beside me. Especially now that Lanie felt she had to sacrifice herself to undo the damage he's done. I've sure the hell been angry and hurt, yes, but hate has never once revealed its ugly face in the midst of it. Instead, what I've felt toward him has been about as far from hate as one can get.

Kristov lets go of my chin but I haven't moved, haven't taken my eyes off him. I should. I know I should be doing a lot of things right now and none of them is what I'm actually doing or even thinking about. Through this intense moment of connection, the only thought that gives voice to itself is a need to forget everything that's happened, to climb out of that weighted place that's suffocating and sucking any semblance of life out of me. I want nothing else right now other than to lose myself in this man, to allow him into that empty and cold place only he's ever been able to fill.

_Christ. How fucked up am I?_

"Jared," Kristov whispers. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know like what." Kristov turns away from me, but I only allow him that break for a few seconds. Mimicking Kristov, I grasp his chin in my hand and force him to look at me again. A flash of something in his eyes ignites them. And it ignites something in me as well, and before I can stop myself, I'm leaning toward him.

"No, Jared." Kristov stops me with a finger covering my lips. "I'm not a fan of head games." His voice is low, almost a growl. "You should know that better than anyone."

"It's not a head game—"

"It is, and it's not the way to fix this." Kristov shakes his head. "I'd love nothing more than for you to kiss me, but not because you want an aspirin to dull your pain. If you kiss me, it has to mean something more." He rubs my shoulder. "And you know as well as I do that neither of us is ready for anything like that."

"Kris—"

"I'm still married, Jared. And so are you. Your wife just left you, and I—" he breaks off and sighs. He looks at me again, his eyes shining with moisture. "You need rest. Go back to your house and get some sleep."

"I can't." I rub my face and groan. "There's too much to do, and I don't even know where the fuck to start. I have to talk to my brother, my mother, and call Shelby out of school today because she's not in any shape to go. Neither is Tyrell. I need to spend some time with her, too—"

Kristov's eyes widen. "Wait. Shelby didn't go with her mother?"

I give Kristov a half smile. "Nope. Lanie allowed her to stay. She said she'll be back in late February to discuss Shelby's living arrangements while I'm on tour." I get to my feet and extend a hand to Kristov. "Come with me."

"Where?" Kristov looks up at me.

"To the main house. I want you to meet her, and then you can keep me sane while I deal with everything else."

 

***

 

As we walk around to the main house, I make the call to Shelby's school, telling the automated attendance line that she's staying home today. Jimmy's already done the same for Ty after unloading their bikes from the back of his SUV.

Tyrell and Shelby are in her tower. But before bringing Kristov in there to meet the kids, we stop in the kitchen. Usually at this time of the morning Lanie's in here getting breakfast on for the three of us,  greeting me with a smile and a kiss as she hands me a cup of tea.

Today the kitchen is empty and silent, Lanie's missing presence a tangible thing. I open the cupboard and my eyes fall on Lanie's favorite mug—a hand-painted cobalt blue job with a big yellow sun on it that she found at a pop-up art market last month. I've always thought it looked like something a kindergarten kid made, but Lanie seemed to love it and she used it daily. The sight of it makes my throat tighten. I bypass it and grab the two next to it, my vision blurring. I almost drop one of the cups, saving it from smashing on the counter by a millimeter.

"Jared." Comforting hands grasp my shoulders from behind and squeeze gently. "Why don't you let me make the tea."

"I'm okay," I croak. I set the cups down and wipe at my eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "Man," I laugh shakily, "I thought I was all cried out."

"Sit," Kristov insists. "I've got this. Go make your phone calls."

Reluctantly, I do what he says, leaving the kitchen and going to sit in the living room. God, how I don't want to do this, but I can't put it off. However, instead of calling Shannon and my mother, I text them both. I don't tell them what's happened, only that I need to speak with them as soon as possible. After a few moments, I send another message to Stevie and Tomo. 

I know I also need to contact Carrie and Danica at the Wilshire office, my publicist Karen, my agent Josh, and, unfortunately, my attorney Oliver Hatch. I can about imagine what  _he'll_  say about this. Oliver was none too pleased about me running off to Vegas and getting married without a pre-nup in the first place. Once he learns Lanie left me, he'll undoubtedly go into a complete meltdown, yelling that my wife will clean me out before I'll know what's hit me.

But Lanie won't do that. I've made sure she's taken care of, transferring a good sum into an account in her name back when I hired her to take care of me when I was recovering from the accident, and I've had my accounting team deposit money in it on a regular basis ever since.

Besides, no matter how badly I treated our marriage, Lanie would never in a million years seek my financial ruin. My wife may have kept many things about herself hidden from me, but I'm absolutely positive that greed is not one of them.

But it's Oliver's job to look at all legal ramifications and his duty is first and foremost my interests and I understand that. I just hope he'll be able to recommend a family lawyer to advise me about securing Shelby's permanent placement with me after the end of February, which is the main thing I'll want to discuss with him. But not yet. For now, only those closest to me need to know anything about the situation.

At this early hour, I'm not surprised that my mother is the first to text back. _Is everything okay?_

No sense beating around the bush. I type,  _Lanie and I are splitting up._

_WHAT? What on earth happened?????_

Before I can formulate a reply, my phone rings, and at the same time Kristov appears from the kitchen with two cups of tea. I nod my thanks to him and answer my mother's call.

She's frantic, of course, demanding to know what's going on. Gesturing with his thumb out the window, Kristov takes his tea and leaves the room while I talk to my mom, saying words I know I'm going to be repeating multiple times to everyone else. I leave out a whole lot, though. About Kristov and Ivan Valkov, especially. My mother knows about my past with Kristov, but bringing him up now would be a mistake. Mainly because my mother will then misconstrue the entire situation.

"But she left Shelby with you," my mother muses. "That's huge, honey. That means she trusts you to take care of her daughter, and it means she will be back." She pauses and then says, "I just can't believe she just left without saying goodbye to any of us. It doesn't make sense. That's not the Lanie I know."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb. "That's not the Lanie I know, either."

My phone beeps with an incoming call. I pull my phone away and look at it, and then say, "Mom, Shannon's calling. Can I call you back? Better yet, could you stop over?"

My mother's reply is swift. "Of course. I'll be there around three."

I end the call to her and click over to grab Shannon's before it can go to voicemail.

"Holy shit," my brother sighs when I'm finished telling him the story I just told our mother. "I don't know what to say, bro, except that I fuckin' knew it."

"Knew what?" I say, bitterness creeping into my voice. "That you were right all along?"

"Yeah, that, plus the fact that she'd never accept Kristov being around." He pauses and changes the subject abruptly. "Y'know, I'd forgotten about those stupid fucking picks until now. Jesus, how juvenile were we back then?"

"We thought we were the shit," I say, feeling my lips stretch in a smile despite myself. Shannon's always had that effect on me, and I welcome it more than ever right now because I need it now more than ever. "Our first real tour. Little rock stars with overblown egos."

Shannon laughs. "Yeah, well. With all that pussy falling at our feet, who can blame us for thinking we were God's gift? We were idiots, but it was fun while it lasted." He sobers and then says, "So, do you want me to fly down for a visit? I should anyway. There's a lot of fine-tuning work left to do on the album, and I have a song I wanna run by you, maybe see if it might make the final cut."

"You wrote a song? By yourself?" I finish my tea, watching Kristov's shadow passing by outside the window in the direction of the pool.

"Well, Stevie helped, but yeah, it's mine."

"I've been after you forever to record one of your songs, so yeah, of course I'd like to hear it," I say, spinning my empty cup around with my finger. "When can you be here?"

There's a short pause where all I hear is the clicking of a keyboard. Then Shannon says, "Okay, done. I'm booked on the ten-thirty flight this morning. There's a San Fran layover but it's short. I can be at LAX by three-thirty. That cool?"

"I'll send Jimmy or someone to grab you at the airport," I reply. "Thanks, Shan."

"No problem." His voice warms as he adds, "You know fucking well that I'm not about to let you go through this without me."

"I know," I say softly, "and I love you for it. Have a safe flight and I'll see you in a few hours."

I end the call and leave the living room. I go outside and moments later I find Kristov outside by the pool, gazing into the water. His tea cup is on a nearby mosaic table and he's got his hands jammed in his pockets. He looks over at me as I move to his side. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"My mother's coming over this afternoon, and Shannon's flying down, too."

Kristov nods and turns back to the water. "I see. I'll be sure to make myself scarce at Jimmy's while they're here."

"That's not necessary," I say. "Shannon already knows you're here, and I'll explain the situation to my mom. She'll understand."

Kristov's dark eyes flit to me and he bites at his bottom lip. "I don't wish to intrude on your family time, Jared. It's no problem." He lifts one corner of his lips in a smirk. "I'm supposed to be staying there, after all."

I study him silently for a moment. Then I take a deep breath and say, "You don't have to, you know."

Kristov sighs. "Besides feeling like I'd be intruding, this is your family, Jared. During a time like this, you need to focus on them and they on you. My presence would only add a distraction and a lot of questions. You can come visit me at Jimmy's when they leave."

I keep my eyes on his profile. "What I mean is, you don't have to stay at Jimmy's. You can stay in the main house with me."

Kristov throws me a startled glance. He looks away quickly, running a hand through his long hair. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" I gesture behind me at the building. "The place is enormous, Kris, and it's just me and Shelby in there. Magda's got an office, too, and he's here a few days a week, but otherwise other than the housekeepers, that's it. It's no problem."

Kristov grimaces and rubs his forehead. "Well, are you not worried that it'll look...suspicious?"

I let out a harsh sigh. "Jesus, Kris. Suspicious to whom? Anyway, I don't give a fuck about that."

"Since when?" Kristov turns his gaze full-power on me again. "I remember a time when that's all you gave a fuck about. Always separate cars, separate arrival and departure times, keeping our distance in public so as not to appear that we were anywhere together."

I look down at my feet. "Yeah, I know," I mumble. "I can't imagine how that made you feel."

"No, Jared, you can't." Kristov begins to walk away.

"I didn't like having to do that any more than you did," I call after him. "Don't forget that you had just as much reason to hide our relationship!"

Kristov turns. "I only had to hide it as long as I was living in Russia." The rising sun glances across his face, and the dampness in his eyes glimmers. "Had you said the word, Jared, I'd have left Moscow and settled here in America without a second thought,  where I'd have no reason to keep you at a safe distance. But you made it very clear to me that you didn't want it."

My shoulders slump and my heart thuds heavily in my chest. "You're right. I did tell you that. And that hurt you. It made you feel cheap and dirty." I begin to walk toward him. "You felt used. Unloved. Right?"

Kristov's tear-filled eyes have a glint of surprise in them. "Yes."

I pull him into my arms and rest my head on his shoulder as his arms close around me. "I  _can_  imagine it, Kris, and I'm sorry." God, I sure seem to be saying that word a hell of a lot lately. "But I'm not the guy I was eight years ago. Maybe you hiding your relationship with me didn't affect me as much as my hiding you did, but I really do get how it made you feel." I draw back and take a shaking breath. Our arms are still around one another. If anyone pulled up at the gate, they'd probably see us. If Pharrell came to this side of his property, he'd have a perfect view. If Jimmy looked out his living room window, if Shelby looked down from her tower—

A bit of the old self-consciousness flutters through me. I step away, but I keep my eyes on Kristov. "You know what's really ironic about Lanie getting those pictures back from Ivan?"

"What?" Kristov shifts uncomfortably. He folds his arms over his chest, wincing a little, and, like earlier, a shadow of guilt crosses his face.

I give him a thin smile. "Before she did it, I had been giving some real thought to the idea of coming out."

Kristov's eyes widen. "Oh, my God. Jared. Are you serious?"

I nod. "Yeah. I just hadn't told anyone yet. You're the first to know, since it was your advice that made me consider it." I grimace. "I wish to fuck I'd told Lanie. She wouldn't have—" I shudder. "Jesus Christ, the thought makes me want to puke."

"She made that decision on her own," Kristov says gently. "You can't blame yourself, Jared. I, on the other hand can, and I do."

I sigh. "No, I have my own responsibility in it.  I should never have told her about Ivan's offer in the first place. Then she'd never have known it was ever an option." I reach out and take Kristov's arm, tugging it gently as I start back toward the front of the house. "Anyway, come back inside with me. I want you to meet a pretty fucking amazing couple of kids."

Kristov wipes his eyes and gives me a tremulous smile. "All right."

 

***

 

Shelby takes to Kristov instantly, and by all indications, the feeling is mutual. I've seen Kristov interact with kids before, at charity events and a couple of times when he's come to Mars shows and mingled with kids at Meet and Greets. He's always been smiling and gentle with them. Shelby's two kittens also hurry to meet the stranger. Shelby picks them up and places them in his arms to be petted since Kristov cannot yet bend that far down without discomfort.

Shelby and Tyrell are both wiped out, and Shelby's dealing with the additional burden of her mother's departure, but her dark eyes are shining as she and Tyrell give Kristov a tour of her tower, ending in the game room. Kristov's face lights up at the sight of the consoles, the huge television, and the racks of games. Despite my emotionally fried state, I snicker at his enthusiastic reaction, knowing he loves gaming almost as much as the kids do.

The three of them settle into the couch to play Fortnite. I watch for a while, texting back and forth with Tomo and Stevie who also are shocked at my news and, like my mother and brother, insist on coming over later to talk.

I'd really like to stay up here in the tower and lose myself in the company of Kristov and the kids, but I can't put off the inevitable any longer. I walk over to the couch and look down at the back of Kristov's head, and give his hair a gentle tug. "Hey, I've got some stuff to do. You want to come downstairs with me, or would you rather hang out here for a little while?"

Kristov arches his neck back, so he's looking at me upside down. "Do you mind if I stay here?"

I shake my head and smile. "Not at all."

As I get to the elevator, I throw a look over my shoulder at Kristov on the couch with Ty on one side of him and Shelby on the other. All three of them leaning forward and intent on the game, laughing and talking animatedly. A ghost of a smile crosses my lips and I step into the elevator.

 

***

 

Since getting back from Chris and Emily's, I've been dreading this moment. Earlier, I only stepped inside the bedroom I've shared with Lanie long enough to set the manila envelope containing the photos on the table nearest the door. It was still dark when I got home, and I didn't turn on the light then because I couldn't bear to look inside. Now, the room is flooded with sunshine and as I step in, I'm immediately seized with a tightness in my chest, my lungs, my entire being.

So many of Lanie's things are still here. Clothes, accessories—though those are few since she's not a girly-girl, as she calls it. Cosmetics in the bathroom. Her shampoo. On the hook next to the shower stall is a towel. It's still slightly damp. Lanie must have used it after showering when she came back from—

My mind snaps shut. I leave the bathroom and pick up the envelope from the table, turning it over and over in my hands. Lanie's presence is everywhere in this room, her scent permeating every corner. I glance at the bed. It's neatly made, because she didn't sleep there last night. And, of course, neither did I. While I slept in Jimmy's guest room, cocooned in the warmth of Kristov's arms, Lanie had returned from an unspeakable nightmare I can't even imagine, showered Ivan Valkov's foulness from her body, and packed her things.

There's something on the nightstand next to my side of the bed. Something small that's catching the sunlight and making it shimmer. Before I even get halfway there I know what it is.

Picking up Lanie's wedding ring, I sit on the edge of the bed, clutching it in my fist, the envelope in my other hand pressed against my chest. A thickness forms in the air around me, but I don't cry. I don't scream. I just sit there, opening my hand and studying the ring a moment longer, and then I open the nightstand drawer, drop the ring inside, and close the drawer again. I'm filled with calm, but not peace. More like  the odd stillness that sets in after a tornado has ripped through, leaving nothing behind but a sort of quiet devastation. How to rebuild? Where to even start?

No matter what my mother wishes to believe, no matter Emily's optimistic words outside their house, no matter what tiny hope I've held onto that we could work through this, Lanie's promised return next month is about Shelby and has nothing to do with salvaging our marriage. Leaving her wedding ring behind was as clear a message as having it sky-written.

It's over.

I don't know how long I sit there, but eventually I get up and go to the walk-in closet. The door is partially open already, and so I open it all the way, step inside, and flip the light switch on the right-hand side of the doorway.

I immediately look up at the top shelf above my head on the right. There's something there. Another manila envelope, and on top of that, something else. It's black and plastic, and about the same width as the envelope it's sitting on top of. From underneath I can't tell what it is. I stand on my toes to reach up and grasp it and the envelope with my fingers. The object has a smooth top that feels like metal and as I pull it off the shelf, I realize what it is.

 _A laptop computer?_   _What the fuck?_

A black box comes tumbling down along with the laptop and the envelopes—there are several of those, not just one as I'd thought. The box just misses my head and hits the floor, spilling its contents everywhere.

Thumb drives. At least a couple dozen. I stare at the laptop and the envelopes in my hands, and at the little black drives all over the floor, and then I bend and pick up the container that held them, my eyes widening in amazement. This isn't just a box. This is a full-on Colibri humidor, made of mahogany finished in smooth, shining laquer, the interior in roughly hewn wood. The combined but not unpleasant scent of high-end cigars and cedar waft under my nose.

"What the fuck is all of this, Lanie?" I whisper, though I suspect I already know the answer. My heart clenches in my chest as I take the laptop and envelopes out of the closet and place them on the bed. Then I return to the closet and pick up the thumb drives, putting them all back in the humidor, and I bring it to the bed as well.

First, I look at the envelopes, spreading them across the foot of the bed. Each has something written on them in the same block letters that mine does, and a chill runs through me as I recognize all of the names.

Oh, God. I feel sick to my stomach. With trembling hands, I pick up an envelope and open it, knowing damn well what I'm going to see before I actually pull out the contents.

"Holy shit," I whisper. I shove the photos back in the envelope, and pick up the next one. Its contents are similar. Horror and nausea combine into a roiling stew in the pit of my stomach.

Two very popular actresses. Two extremely well-known female singers. And two men I know well and have worked with—both of them verging on A-list status. Every one of these celebrities are featured in sexually explicit photographs, some with partners that I know aren't their spouses. In the case of one of the men and two of the women, their partners are of the same sex. People I've never once suspected of being gay, lesbian or bisexual.

"Jesus," I whisper. How the fuck had Lanie gotten her hands on all of this? That wasn't part of Ivan's deal. Not by a long shot. And what about the laptop, the humidor full of thumb drives? What in God's name is contained in  _them?_

My eyes fall on the one envelope I haven't yet opened. Written across it is the last name "Lawrence".

Jesus....is it Jennifer? Knowing what she suffered at the hands of Weinstein, I have no reason to doubt it. And if it is, then Harvey Weinstein and Ivan Valkov are more alike than I've ever realized. Slowly I open the envelope and pull out the photos, closing my eyes as I do so. Then, gritting my teeth, I open them again, and it's like all the air has been sucked from the room, which begins to spin.

The first thing I realize is that, unlike the other illicit couplings, this one by no means depicts an act of consent.

The second thing I realize is that the dark-haired woman being brutally raped on camera is not Jennifer Lawrence.

It's Emily Pine.


	20. Jared

_The blinding glare of the spotlight, the ocean of screaming fans in front of me, the broad, stoic backs of yellow-shirted security standing between the stage and the barricade, the sound of my voice and our music pumping through the towering speakers. These are all familiar things, and this is one of the few places where I feel free. I live to perform, whether on a concert stage like this one or before a camera. And tonight, I've given the sell-out crowd my all, whipping the thousands in the audience and dozens more fans onstage_ _into one final frenzy_ _with our encore song,_ Closer to the Edge.

_Then the lights go up and I'm being hustled backstage to my dressing room to shower the sweat from my body and change clothes. There's an eagerness to my steps despite my back and leg aching from spinning, jumping and running around for the last couple of hours. A shower and a massage sound more than good. And of course after that..._

_But there's the usual gauntlet of groupies and hangers-on to get through first. Shannon goes into protective big-brother mode as always, guarding me from being groped by the boldest of the enthusiastic girls, and ends up getting mauled a little himself in the process. "Christ," he growls in my ear as our hired security team is forced to shield him as well as me. "I sure wish Ash had been able to make it on this tour."_

_"Because nothing feeds your ego better than your woman beating bitches off of you," I snicker as we arrive at my dressing room door. Two beefy security guards flank me, one opening the door just enough for me to slip inside. Before I do, I throw my brother a look over my shoulder. "One hour."_

_Shannon wipes a sweaty forearm over his sweatier brow and gives me a smirk. "Yeah, sure," he says, looking pointedly over my shoulder into my dressing room. Then security whisks him down the hall to his own private sanctuary, fighting off the number of screaming girls who give up their pursuit of me in favor of him._

_I lean against the closed door for a few seconds, breathing a sigh of relief, secure in the knowledge that two of our security staff will stand vigil on the other side until I'm ready to leave. Then I head for the bathroom, shedding my stage attire as I go. My heart pounds faster when I step into the warm, steaming dampness of the room, my breath catching in my throat as always when I see who's waiting for me in there with the shower already running._

_Strong hands grasp my wrists. I'm spun around and pressed against the wall next to the shower stall, and I'm held firmly in place. The cold tiles against my overheated bare skin create a contrast that's both startling and arousing. Even more arousing are the deep brown eyes locked on mine and filled with lusty determination._

_He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. My heart races in joy like it always does that he's here with me, waiting after every show. My cock, which was already twitching in anticipation before I reached my dressing room, springs completely to life._

_"Kris—" I gasp out, just before his mouth covers mine, and his beautiful, muscled body, as naked as my own, presses intimately to mine. The kiss is carnal and feverish. Kristov's chest, abdomen and groin rub against my sweat-covered skin, creating instantaneous, heated need. His tongue plunders my mouth as his fingers tighten their hold on my wrists. The erotic adrenaline rush of it overwhelms me, sweeping away my various aches and pains. Exhaustion from having just finished a two-hour performance is completely forgotten._

_Kristov finally releases my wrists. I expect he's going to pull me into the already-running shower to continue his erotic assault, but he doesn't. Instead, keeping his eyes on mine, he drops to his knees, taking my cock in his hand. Smiling up at me, he pulls off one slow, twisting stroke._

_"Kris...babe, don't," I protest as his lips edge closer to my ramrod-stiff dick. "I'm all sweaty and gross."_

_"Mmm," Kristov hums, nuzzling my groin. The ends of his hair whisper against my thighs."Very sweaty, yes, but I'd hardly call you gross, my love. You're perfect." His tongue snakes out and gives my shaft a long slow lick from root to tip, collecting the clear bead of pre-come already oozing from it._

_"Holy shit," I gasp, a tremor causing my body to quiver. With one hand loosely circling my cock at the base, Kristov reaches his other hand around to grasp my ass as he gives my cock another firm lick. "Fuuuck..." I let out the word in a long sigh. "At least let me get in the shower—"_

_"Shut up," Kristov commands in a soft growl, his eyes boring into mine._

_Even when he's on his knees Kristov takes a dominant approach, and I love it. Obediently, I shut my mouth, and Kristov opens his, swallowing my thickened, hard-as-steel length as only he can. One delightfully long, smooth stroke deep into a hot, wet paradise—_

 

 

I wake up with a start, gasping and panting as the dream begins to fade into murky darkness. My cock, however, is at full, throbbing attention, eager to finish what dream-Kristov started. The bulge in the front of my pants is painfully obvious proof of that.

"Christ," I groan. With great difficulty, I roll off the mattress, get to my feet, and stagger to the bathroom. My dick is rock-hard, and I wonder how long before it'll go down. I know how to remedy the situation quickly, of course. The question is whether I want to or not.

Jesus! Somehow in the maelstrom whirling like a hurricane in my head, I had actually managed to fall asleep? Obviously Kristov had been right that I needed rest. What I  _didn't_  need was to then have a goddamned x-rated dream about him. No, I really,  _really_ didn't need that right now.  I'd almost prefer the usual mass-shooter nightmare, the one I've almost gotten accustomed to, if such a thing is possible.  With my current state of mind it would make a hell of a lot more sense to be waking up screaming in terror, not waking up with a hard-on for the fucking ages.

The nuances of dream-Kristov's mouth and tongue playing over my rigid, heated flesh repeat themselves in my mind and I groan out loud again. My dick is still hard as stone, and I'm pretty sure it isn't going to go away until I do something about it.

 _God,_  I think as I strip and start the shower.  _I really am fucked up. But hey...no one has to know, right?_

It would certainly not be the first time I've jerked off while thinking about Kristov over the years, but under the current circumstances there's more than a little of the usual guilt attached to the act. But need has overcome conscience and so I step into the shower, lather up, and take my aching cock in my hand. Where was I again? I focus on the threads of visions and sensations remaining from the dream, and once they're back in my mind's eye, I begin to work my hand, pulling off long strokes.

Closing my eyes, it's only seconds before I'm back into the fantasy. Kristov, the walking wet dream himself, swallowing me whole. Running my fingers through his gorgeous hair as his sensuous lips and skilled tongue do their magic, taking me to blissful, soaring heights _—_

The result is an orgasm so powerful I can't bite back the cry that rips from my throat. I only hope no one is close enough to my bedroom to hear it and come running into the bathroom thinking I've fallen and hurt myself or something. I lean against the wall to stay upright as my breathing and heartbeat gradually slow back down to a normal rate. Dream-Kristov fades and then vanishes completely. I open my eyes, sighing as the last bit of evidence of my self-gratification washes down the drain.

There's undeniable relief in getting myself off, but it's fleeting. Physically, I'm somewhat sated. Emotionally, that hollow empty space in me is still hollow and empty.

 

***

 

My phone battery died and as distracted as I was all morning I didn't even realize it was low. I plug it into the charger, turn it on, and it begins buzzing and beeping instantly. I groan at the number of missed calls, texts and social media notifications. I toss it on the floor next to my makeshift bed and dig through the closet to find something to wear. Most of my daily wear is in the other bedroom, but I find an old pair of track pants and a ripped and faded Guns N Roses t-shirt. No underwear, but I figure I can go commando until I fetch a pair from the other bedroom.

Dressed, I pick up my phone and take it to the old loveseat across the room. I ignore the hundreds of social media notifications and go straight to my missed calls and texts. There are a lot of both. But one name that sticks out from the rest is Flora DuSchene. She's called four times today and probably left at least one voicemail, but I don't bother listening to it. I call her back instead.

She picks up on the second ring. "Jared," she says, her voice tight. "Christ, I've been trying to get ahold of you for hours. Where the fuck have you been?"

"Busy, then I took a nap, and my phone died. What's going on?"

"We need to talk," she answers, her voice still tense.

I run the fingers of my free hand through my damp hair. "You know about Lanie, I take it." I pause, and then continue, "Something tells me you knew what she was gonna do before she did it."

"I know she left, and let Shelby stay with you, which is the smartest thing she could've done. I knew what she'd planned to do before she left, yeah. She came over to my place and we had a talk. But before you get pissed at me, you should know that I was sworn to silence." As I absorb this, Flora lets out a long sigh. "Look, Jared. I told her not to think for a second that running back to Minnesota will do her any good if she did this, especially if Ivan pulls through and starts talking."

I frown in confusion. "Pulls through what?"

There's a stunned silence. Then Flora says, her voice low, "You mean you don't know?"

"No." I jump up from the loveseat. "What the fuck is going on, Flora?"

"Jesus! Turn on your TV, dude. It's all over the news. Ivan Valkov was involved in a car accident early this morning. He's at Cedars in critical condition. Christ, I can't believe you don't know!"

I race to the small TV and turn it on to a local L.A. station. Immediately my screen is filled with the image of Cedars-Sinai and a blonde woman reporter in a gray suit standing in front of it and looking somberly into the camera.

"Details are still sketchy, but here's what we do know. At approximately 3:45 this morning, police and rescue services were called to the 900 block of Stradella Road with reports of a single-vehicle accident near Argyle Grant. The car left the road and plunged down into the canyon. Rescue personnel were able to extricate the single occupant who's been positively identified as businessman and private equity film investor Ivan Valkov. Authorities have not released any information about the cause of the crash or if alcohol was a factor, stating only that the accident is under investigation at this time. Officials with Cedars-Sinai have released a statement saying that Mr. Valkov is in extremely critical condition, and his daughter Katia Valkov has been notified. Katia has been in Spain, Italy and Greece on a series of modeling assignments, and reports indicate she is currently en route back to the U.S. We will keep you updated as new information becomes available."

The camera then cuts away to the studio, and I switch the TV off.

_Holy shit. Holy fucking shit._

"Flora," I say when I remember she's still on the line, "Did this accident have anything to do with Lanie being at his house? I mean, the timing is just _—_ it's too fucking close."

There's a short but heavy silence. "Well...we have no way of knowing for sure. I think maybe it's best not to speculate too much.  _Safer."_

I rub my beard with my free hand. "I have to go. I need to talk to Lanie."

 "You can't," Flora informs me. "She doesn't want to speak to you or anyone else."

"I don't give a fuck what she wants!" I yell. "Do you realize what's happened here? Do you know what she brought to me before she took off?  _Do_  you? I _—_ "

"She's going off the grid, Jared. That's what she said when I talked to her this morning after she left L.A. She said when she hangs up with me she's getting rid of her phone and disappearing. I tried to talk her out of it, but she hung up. I tried calling her back and got no answer. Now it's going straight to voicemail, and who knows how or when we'll hear from her again."

"Then how the fuck will we know if she's okay?" I exclaim. "How will she keep in touch with Shelby? She said they can call and FaceTime and text. She  _promised_  her daughter they'd stay in contact!"

Flora sighs. "I don't know about any of that, but I do know she'll be okay. Remember it's Lanie we're talking about here, all right? She can take care of herself. She told me she'll contact me after she gets to Minnesota, but that I won't have any way of initiating any contact with her."

I sit on the loveseat and rest my forehead in my hand, confusion and fury washing through me. "Jesus fucking Christ. I can't  _believe_  this shit," I rasp, trying to control my flailing emotions. "She left me with this mess and told me to take care of it.  Shelby's gonna expect to hear from her mother, and how am I gonna explain to her that her mother decided to go off the grid without a word? She's really gonna do this?"

Flora sighs. "Sure looks that way. And yeah, to answer your earlier question, I have a pretty good idea what she brought to you, but she didn't specify anything except that she got the photos of you and Kristov. She said she didn't look at everything else, just grabbed what she could find and got the fuck out of there. My question is, what are you going to do about it?"

I glance over at the closet. "Fucked if I know. Notify the people involved, obviously, but it's a delicate situation and I'm not sure how to even broach it with anyone. Having something Lanie took from Ivan's possession will connect me to Ivan, and after what happened this morning, that is the last thing I need right now. Especially if it turns out there was some kind of foul play with Lanie involved."

"Given that rape allegation you have hanging over your head, plus you and Chris brawling with Alex Whitfield at the hospital last week? No, you sure don't need this. You're going to have to be very careful in how you handle it, Jared." A pause. "I'm working on-set today but I can take off early and stop over if you need me to. I got a text from Magda and he said he's planning to work until around six. Maybe we can all sit down and help you figure out how to play this."

I pull the phone away and look at the time. "Yeah, I guess he would be here, huh? I was taking a nap and didn't hear him come in."

"Yeah. He said there were some sleazeball reporters and paparazzi at your gate a little while ago, asking a bunch of questions about the rape story and that tussle you got into with Kristov's husband,  _and_  rumors about your sexuality. He and the guys ran them off."

I groan. "Fuck. What else is new?" I rub my forehead with my fingertips, warding off the headache I suspect is rapidly approaching. "Listen, Flora. My brother and mom are going to be here soon, Tomo and Stevie are stopping by after that, and I have to wrap my head around all of this shit before they get here. How about I call you later and we'll carve out some time for you to stop by in the next day or so. I really could use all the friends I have right now to help me figure this shit out."

"Of course," Flora says. "How's Shelby holding up, by the way?"

"Better than I expected. She's happy to have gotten to stay here, for sure. She'll miss her mom, though. It'll be tough going for her, especially if Lanie's doing some disappearing act for fuck knows how long."

"Yeah." Flora's voice turns hesitant. "And maybe confusing, too, what with Kristov living there and all."

I chew my lip. "Look, there's nothing for Shelby to be confused about. She's fully aware that Kristov is a friend I'm helping out. They met today and they hit it off great."

"Okay," Flora says quickly. "Look, I didn't mean to insinuate anything. It's just _—_ there's a history there, you know?" A pause. "I'm the last person to sit in judgment, so don't start thinking I am. I'm just wondering how Shelby's gonna do with it. I come from the same rural area they do, and I know that openly gay people are pretty much nonexistent there. I'm not sure Shelby even understands the concept of homosexuality, does she?"

A bit testily, I reply, "Shelby knows Kristov is gay. Her mother made sure of that. She understands the concept perfectly well. And actually, she's a whole hell of a lot more accepting of it than Lanie turned out to be. But she  _doesn't_   know about mine and Kristov's history. I see no good reason for her to know about it, either."

 

***

 

Before napping,  I'd gone back to Shelby's tower, pulled Kristov from the game, and told him what I'd found. He was dismayed but not terribly shocked to learn that Ivan had a veritable collection of sexually explicit photographs of celebrities. Nor was I, when I think about it. I mean, what made me think I was the only one? 

When I told Kristov, I prudently skipped the part about Emily Pine's photographs being among them, which still has me reeling. Emily and Chris are Kristov's friends as well as neighbors, and I know he would be absolutely devastated to learn of the graphic and violent nature of the act caught on camera. No, the only person I'll tell is Emily herself, and Chris, if she wants him to know about them.

Still, I'm left wondering how the fuck Lanie managed to get her hands on multiple sets of damning photographs that I'm certain the sonofabitch hadn't just kept laying around on a table or something,  _plus_ a laptop and thumb drives containing God only knows what. And now, after finding out about Ivan's car accident, the troubling questions are multiplying ten-fold, to the point my head wants to explode.  

_Thanks a hell of a lot, Lanie._

 

_***_

 

"The encryption he's got in this system is a bitch," Gene grumbles to me when I go to Jimmy's to check on their progress with hacking into the laptop. He and David and Jimmy are all huddled around Jimmy's desk, the open laptop in front of them. I watch for a minute, but none of the stuff Gene's typing on the screen makes sense to me. Some kind of code, I assume. They've been able to get past the operating system password, but beyond that all of the folders are locked tighter than an ant's ass, as Jimmy puts it. Even the thumb drives are locked down with multi-layered encryption, Gene informs me. "Whatever he's got on here and on these drives, he sure as shit never intended anyone else to look at. It's gonna take time and persistence."

"Let me know when you get in," I tell them.

"Will do, boss," David replies.  "We'll keep working at it while Jimmy goes to pick up Shannon."

I go outside and find Kristov once again near the pool. This time he's reclined in a chaise lounge, long legs crossed, hands behind his head. Down by the garage, Shelby and Ty are engaged in a lively game of one-on-one basketball, and I can hear the sound of the ball bouncing and thumping off the backboard amid their shouts and laughing. The quiet waterfall on the other side of the footbridge is a steady source of soft white noise. There's a light breeze, keeping the temperature just slightly cool, but the sun's warmth makes up for it.

I ease onto the edge of the chaise, studying Kristov. "How's it going?" I follow his gaze, which is fixed on the water. "Y'know, this is the second time I've caught you out here looking at the pool."

Kristov nods. "I love to swim. You remember."

I smile. "Yeah, I remember." I touch his abdomen gently and feel the surgical bandage under my fingers. He flinches, but doesn't pull away. "When you're healed up a little more and it gets a bit warmer, you are more than welcome to use the pool, you know."

"I don't have swim trunks here. In fact," Kristov gestures vaguely at himself, "I have no other clothes here but what I'm wearing."

I nod. "Yeah. We're not exactly the same size or I'd lend you some of mine until we arrange for your things to be moved here."

A flicker of expressions cross his face when I say this. "Moved here," he echoes. "That makes it sound..." he trails off and shrugs. "This is temporary, so I only need a few changes of clothes."

I keep my eyes on him. "You can stay as long as you like, Kris, and my offer to stay in the main house still stands."

Kristov grimaces and looks back at the pool. "I can't impose like that. It wouldn't be right. That's the house you shared with your wife, Jared. I don't feel like I should be there."

"Lanie was only here for a few months," I argue. "I've had this place a lot longer than that."

"But you feel her presence in your house, don't you?" Kristov pushes his hair away from his face. "More to the point, you feel her  _absence."_  He looks at me again, his eyes narrowing a bit, and I can almost see walls going up around him. "I can't be your bandaid."

"Bandaid?" I echo. "What do you mean by that?"

"Earlier, you said you're not the guy you were eight years ago," Kristov points out. "I believe that's true, but I suspect some things about you haven't changed much at all."

"Like?" I prompt, wondering how what started as a seemingly innocuous conversation veered in this direction. I fidget uncomfortably on the edge of the chaise.

"Like your constant attempts to seek out pain relievers wherever you can find them." He covers my hand with his own. "I understand it, but I can't be a part of it, or go down that road myself. It hurts too much."

I frown at him, a flutter of defensiveness driving the edge in my voice. "I don't think I know what you mean."

Kristov gives me a sad little smile. "I think you do. You and I are so alike in that way, Jared, but I've come to recognize it in myself and am trying not to make that mistake again." He rubs his thumb lightly over the back of my hand. "Otherwise I'd have let you kiss me this morning, because God knows how badly I wanted that _._ That and more, ever since we spent the day together at my house." He looks away. "It'd be so easy _—_ but I can't do that. Not to you or to myself."

I'm silent a moment, absorbing this. My hand is still on his stomach, and his is still covering it. "How is it?" I ask softly, nodding at his midsection.

He follows my gaze. "Sore, but getting better. I don't want any more of those pain pills, though. They're too strong."

"Did you take the colloidal silver? And don't forget, Dr. Lindsey says you have to go in for a bunch of vaccinations in about a week, too. Did you make the appointment yet?"

"Yes, I did." Kristov's eyes bore into mine. "You're changing the subject, as usual."

 _"You_  changed the subject. I simply said we need to arrange for your stuff to get moved over here and you went off on some random tangent about bandaids," I counter.

Kristov squeezes my hand and shakes his head, smiling. "We're quite a pair, Jared."

I can't help but smile back. Warmth envelopes me and goddammit, that dream floats through my mind.  The overwhelming urge to possess that perfect mouth with mine is damn near impossible to resist. Here in broad daylight and in full view of the guys in Jimmy's house, the kids if they come back up from the garage, or Magda, if he should happen to come around from the main house.

But then the thought of Magda leads to Flora which leads to _—_ I force my thoughts in another direction. "You should know that I've received some disturbing information."

Kristov raises an eyebrow. "More disturbing than what you found in your bedroom closet?"

I grind my teeth together. "Ivan was involved in a car accident early this morning. He's at Cedars in critical condition and he may not make it."

Kristov's eyes widen as his hand tightens over mine. "What the fuck happened?"

I take a long breath. "I'm not sure. I guess he lost control and went off the road into a ravine."

"You don't think that your wife _—_ " he falls silent, staring at me.

"I have no idea," I stare off at some faraway point on the other side of the pool. "I think it's pretty convenient she did...whatever she did...then she came back at some obscene hour and at close to the same time, Ivan crashed his car." I turn back to Kristov. "I just don't know."

"That certainly is odd." Kristov closes his eyes and leans his head back against the chaise. "Wow."

"Tell me about it. I can't fucking believe this is happening."

"As far as I know, Katia's out of the country right now. Do you think she knows yet?"

I nod. "They said on the news she's on her way back from Europe."

"You know, I once liked Ivan," Kristov muses, his eyes far away and reflective. "When I was a child and he and Yuri were best friends. He was like an uncle to me." He gives me a sardonic smile. "I was so grateful to him for everything he did for me after my mother died and my father was too busy to notice he had a son who was growing up but still needed a parent in his life." Kristov shakes his head. "But now _—_ " he looks at me, his near-black eyes growing hard. "Now, I won't shed a tear if that sick bastard dies."

"Yeah, well, at least I'm in the clear from him now, as are several other people." I twist side to side, working out a kink in my back, and then stretch my arms over my head. "I can't believe Lanie pulled that shit off, however she did it."

"Has there been any success cracking his laptop?" Kristov wants to know.

"Not yet." I shake my head. "And they can't even open the files on the thumb drives. They're all encrypted, too."

"That means whatever's on them is important," Kristov says.

"Exactly." I look at my phone, and then at Jimmy's wing. "Jimmy's leaving to pick up Shannon at the airport pretty soon, and my mother should be here any time."

"Is that my cue to vanish?" Kristov asks quietly.

I hold Kristov's gaze, saying nothing at first. Then I reach out and touch his face. "Knock it off, Kris. We had that conversation already. My mom will be thrilled to see you. It's been a long time." I give him a reassuring smile, my thumb grazing across his cheekbone.

Kristov leans into my touch the tiniest bit and attempts to return my smile, his eyes softening a little. But I sense apprehension in him, too. "I loved your mother," he says quietly. "She was always very kind." He bites his bottom lip and then in a softer voice says, "It's your brother who worries me."

I give Kristov a puzzled look. "Why? Shannon's never had a problem with you."

"No," he says slowly, drawing the word out. "I just thought after everything _—_ he was always very protective of you, and so I thought there might be hard feelings."

I shake my head. "If there are, I haven't heard about them, and trust me _—_ Shannon isn't one to hold back how he feels." I tilt my head to the side and study Kristov, whose attention is focused on the pool again. "That pretty head of yours is sure working overtime today."

Kristov's eyes shift back to me, one elegant eyebrow raised a fraction. "Pretty?" He smirks. "Says the man with a million fangirls dying to get in his pants, not to mention a number of fan _boys."_

Automatically I tense. Once, any discussion about ardent fans and groupies _—_ female or male _—_ would've been like a spark in a dry tinderbox, a screaming argument inevitably following such an exchange. Now I realize it's just gentle teasing, without a hint of malice or bitter, insecure jealousy. I like that. I like that a lot. Of course, we're not together now, so there'd be no cause for any of that. But still, it's nice to no longer walk on eggshells, always afraid of setting off some ridiculous fight.

_Yeah, but the make-up sex was pretty fucking incredible._

Christ! I almost groan out loud, and quickly I slam the door shut on those thoughts. As we walk back toward the main house, I again bring up the subject of getting his things from the house he shared with Alex. "It's your stuff," I argue. "You're entitled to what's yours."

"Yes," Kristov sighs, jamming his hands in his pockets. His eyes are dark and far away as he continues, "But I can't bear to go back to that house, Jared. Not yet."

I glance at him. "Because you're afraid?"

He doesn't meet my eyes. "Yes," he says with a quick nod. "Not only of Alex, but of everything. And it would be too painful." He gestures vaguely. "The memories, you know."

I nod understandingly. "Well," I say gently, "You don't have to go. I can send the guys over there to get your stuff."

"I don't want to trouble them."

I sigh loudly. "It's not any trouble, Kris. Will you stop worrying about putting everyone out for Christ's sake?" I give him a light punch on the arm and smile. "Seriously. Lighten up."

Kristov stops just before we step under the portico. "If I do this _—_ stay in the main house, I mean _—_ I would prefer a bedroom some distance from yours." He bites his lip again and fidgets uncomfortably.

"Why?" 

I'm prepared for another speech about keeping our friendship as just that, but I don't get it. In fact, Kristov's answer is far from anything I expect to hear.  "Because I have bad dreams," he admits.

I stare at him, startled. "Huh?"

He shrugs slightly. "I have bad dreams, and sometimes I scream so loud I wake myself up. I don't want to wake you as well."

I blink. "You have frequent nightmares?"

Kristov nods. "Yes. I've had them for a while, but especially since..." he trails off and looks down.

"Since Alex beat you the last time," I finish for him.

Kristov doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. I step up to him and force him to look me in the eyes. "Look, I know all about nightmares. I have them too." I grimace. "Always the same one. Some crazy fuck with a gun shooting into a crowd of people. Like the Vegas shooting, or Bataclan or something. I wake up screaming and scare the shit out of Lanie at least a couple times a week." I pause, and correct myself, _"Scared_  the shit out of Lanie. Past tense." I sigh in aggravation. "Jesus."

Kristov gives me a sympathetic smile. "It's going to take time, Jared. Just as it'll take me some time. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I guess," I mumble as I open the front door and we step inside the foyer. "I haven't had lunch yet and I'm starved. Have you eaten anything?"

"Not yet. What would you like?" Kristov heads straight for the kitchen, and once there, he opens the well-stocked fridge and starts going through its contents. "Still a vegan, I see." He looks up over the open refrigerator door and grins.

"Yep." I lean against the center island, watching him. Strange how it doesn't feel at all odd to have Kristov here in my kitchen, getting ready to prepare a meal with me. In fact, it feels strikingly  _not_  odd. "I have my cheat days now and then, though."

We're just finishing off a couple of veggie wraps when Jimmy's Pathfinder passes by the windows, and I know he's on his way to pick up Shannon from LAX. Moments later, as I'm carrying our sandwich plates from the dining room back into the kitchen, the intercom gives a soft ping, indicating the front gate opening again. I look out the window as my mother's black Tesla pulls into the motor court and parks near the portico.

When she gets out of the car, I immediately tense, because  _she_  looks tense. I didn't get the impression on the phone that Lanie leaving me had gotten to my mother this badly, but apparently it did, because the closer she comes, the more apparent it is that she's one strung-out nerve ready to snap.

Fuck. I hate seeing my mom like this. And knowing I'm the cause of her distress only makes it worse.


	21. Jared

Even though a good part of me is numb inside, I can't stop my own flow of tears once moisture appears in my mother's eyes. When my mom cries, I cry. It's just how it's always been, for as long as I can remember. I'd almost prefer her to be pissed at me for fucking up my marriage and driving Lanie away, which is, on some level at least, what I'd expected from her.

Oh, but she's pissed, all right. However, she's not angry at me. Not at Lanie, either. Or at Kristov after I give her a quick rundown of what's happened with him. No, Mom's pissed at the media and paparazzi, both of whom accosted her as she was leaving her shop to come here. "Saying the most awful things," she says. "How do I feel about having a pedophile for a son? Is it true my son has had a relationship with another man? And where do I think I failed as a mother?" Her voice cracks. "They're unbelievable."

My stomach twists in a knot. My jaw is clenched so tight it hurts, and my hands are doubled up in fists. I force them open and pull my mom to me in a tight hug. "I'm so sorry, Mom. My people are doing everything they can to stop this," I whisper.

"Do you really think they can?" Mom's words are muffled against my shoulder. "This is more than old rumors and gossip...it sounds like the police may get involved now, Jared. That's what the reporters said."

I sigh. "I know. And even if Lanie convinces this woman to retract the story, it'll probably get twisted. There's no way that it  _won't_  be twisted really, and the perception will be that I'm guilty and they'll speculate that I paid hush money. So yeah, maybe the legal aspect will go away, but being cleared of wrongdoing in the public's view is a whole other thing, and that's something I can't control. I'm not sure even my PR rep can do much about it at this point."

"This is insane." Mom draws back from me and wipes her eyes. "I don't understand why anyone would want to destroy your life like this?"

I can only shake my head. "People are fucked up, Mom. That's all I can tell you." Gently I guide her to the living room and sit her down on the couch. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine," she answers, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she pulls from her bag. "When is Shannon coming?"

"Jimmy's on his way to pick him up," I say, sitting next to her and taking her hand. "I'm so sorry this is coming down on you, Mom," I reiterate. "I never wanted that to happen."

"Of course you didn't." She crumples the tissue in her hand and looks around. "Where is Kristov?" she asks. "I'd like to say hello to him."

I nod. "I think he made himself scarce. I told him you and Shannon were coming over, and he kept saying he didn't want to intrude on my family time."

My mother sighed. "Well, I'd really like to see him. I'm very worried. About him and about you."

"Why?" I prompted. That her supposedly arrow-straight son will rebound from his failed marriage by falling for his male ex-lover again, making him even bigger tabloid fodder than he already is?

Mom looks at me, her expression grim, and her hand in mine tightens. "Because it sounds as though this man Alex isn't going to go away quietly. If Kristov is going to stay here with you, I hope Jimmy and his men will be extra vigilant." She looks down at our joined hands. "Did Lanie leave because of Kristov, Jared? Was she aware of your past with him? Tell me the truth."

A heavy silence falls, and I find I'm unable to meet my mother's eyes. "It's complicated," I finally murmur. "Yes, she knew about me and Kristov. I told her about us a while back. There were other issues between us that were unrelated to Kristov, but maybe—" I pause and give a long sigh— "I suppose he was the tipping point for her." I chew my bottom lip and then lift my eyes to meet hers. "But Kristov could've died, Mom. He very nearly did die, and seeing what that bastard did to him, what I know he will  _keep_  doing to him, nothing else mattered to me anymore but making sure he's safe. I knew Lanie didn't want me to bring him here. She raised hell about it. But what else could I do?"

My mother gives me a knowing smile. "You did what you felt was right, Jared. What you felt you needed to do. I completely understand that, but I also completely understand why Lanie reacted the way she did." Though worry lines crease her forehead, the look in her eyes and her voice both soften. "I know you, Jared. I know you better than I think you know yourself, and it's been clear to me for a long time that you've never gotten any closure with Kristov. In fact," she continues, "I'll go as far as saying I'm not sure you've ever really gotten over him."

"That's ridiculous," I mutter. _Jesus!_ First Emily Pine and her comments about me wearing my heart on my sleeve, and now my mother? What the fuck is it that these women are seeing? I shift uncomfortably, my defenses bubbling to the surface even as my chest grows tight and emotion stings my eyes. "Look, Mom. I'm happy that Kristov and I reconnected. I'm glad I was there to help him because he's my friend, but that's all we are now, Mom. _Friends."_  I run the fingers of my free hand through my tangled hair, wincing when I hit a particularly tough snarl. "Please don't read more into it than there is."

My mom studies me for a moment, and then nods. "All right, honey." She looks out of the archway. "How's Shelby doing? I'd like to see her."

I manage a smile. "Better than I expected. Tyrell's been keeping her distracted, and Magda brought her some of her favorite snacks and drinks. She seems to be doing really well, considering. I think she'll be okay to go to school tomorrow."

Mom nods. "Good. Keeping her in her normal routine will help her adjust easier, but I can't imagine any of this is easy. For that little girl essentially losing her mother for reasons she probably can't grasp, or you, losing your wife. I know how difficult it is for you to let anyone in the way you did Lanie, and I know you loved her. You still do, and you're hurting. You and Lanie both are hurting."

I get to my feet and my mother stands with me. "You're right," I answer, emotion swelling in me again at the sadness reflected in her eyes. "And it sucks, Mom. It all just fucking sucks." My voice breaks at the end, and Mom wraps me in another comforting embrace as I lose the battle with my emotions.

 

***

 

While Mom is visiting with Shelby in the tower and before Shannon arrives, I locate Kristov back at Jimmy's. I can tell by the set of his mouth and his pallor that he's in a fair degree of misery, but in true stubborn Kristov Belneczek fashion, he's not budging when I fetch him his pain meds and tell him to take one. He looks at the bottle in my hand with an odd mixture of dread and longing.

"Half, then," I cajole. "Half won't get you so loopy." At his tight-lipped refusal, I ask, "What's the problem?"

"The problem is, they're narcotics." Kristov looks away. "I quit taking narcotics long ago. Right after surgery was one thing and I could understand it, but day after day like this? I'd rather take the pain than..." his voice trails off and his throat works. A shudder ripples through him.

 _Oh._  "Kris," I say gently, "just take half, then. We'll try to wean you off of them by the end of the week."

Kristov sighs, still staring at the pill bottle and he makes no move to take it. I open the cap, shake out a tablet, and snap it in half. "Here," I say, my tone brooking no argument. "And you need the colloidal silver, too."

"I took the colloidal silver already," Kristov says, and he holds my gaze for a long, tense moment. Then finally he holds his hand out for the pill, and I drop it in his palm. "End of the week," he agrees. "No longer."

"By then the pain should be under control," I nod.

Kristov pops the half-tablet in his mouth, washing it down with a swallow from the bottle of water I give him. "Is your mother still here?" he asks when he's finished.

"Yeah. She went up in the tower to visit with Shelby, but she told me she wants to see you. That's why I came to find you." I turn to David and Gene in the living room, where they're still working on Ivan's laptop. "Any luck yet?" I call to them.

David looks over at me and shakes his head. "Nope. Damndest encryption job I've ever seen. I dunno, boss. We'll keep at it but it might be a lost cause."

I sigh heavily. "Fuck. Whatever Valkov's hiding in there, it's gotta be something huge." I turn back to Kristov and give his ponytail a gentle tug with one hand while motioning at the door with the other. "Come on back to the house and say hi to my mom."

Kristov follows me back to the main house, albeit reluctantly. I know he's more worried about coming face-to-face with Shannon than he is my mother, despite my word that my protective big brother is not going to punch his face in or put the blame on him for Lanie leaving me. That's square on my own shoulders and Shannon as well as my mother both know it.

 

***

 

Shannon arrives about fifteen minutes later. He drops his duffle bag and wraps me in a huge, bone-crunching hug the instant he steps in the foyer, and then examines me head to toe as he pulls back. "Jesus, Jared. Look at you. You okay?" he asks anxiously.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I answer."And yeah, I know I look like shit. You don't have to tell me. I do have mirrors in this house, y'know."

"You look stressed the fuck out is what you look like." He glances around and his voice lowers. "So, you hear what happened to Ivan Valkov last night?"

I swallow hard. "Yeah. Listen, Shannon. Lanie did something—"

But Shannon picks up his bag again and continues in the direction of the living room, still talking as if he hasn't heard me. "The news is making it sound like he might not make it." He chuckles. "Whaddaya know? The bastard might be mortal, after all." He steps through the archway and down into the living room. I hold my breath, knowing Kristov is in there and he's still terrified about coming face-to-face with my brother.

I'm right about Shannon's reaction to him, of course. Shannon greets Kristov warmly, inquires about his recovery, and shakes his hand before tossing his duffle aside and casually flopping himself into a beanbag chair with a sigh. But Kristov still stares at Shannon warily, as if he's expecting my brother's friendly attitude to flip at any moment. I sit next to Kristov on the couch and grin at him. Kristov bites his bottom lip and then returns my smile, though it's a tentative one.

After some small talk about Shannon's flight, his and Ashley's new home, how Black Fuel is coming along and life in Seattle, Shannon asks bluntly, "So, what exactly happened with you and Lanie, Jared?" I don't miss the way his eyes dart between Kristov and me as he asks the question. Nor, apparently, does Kristov, because he again goes tense beside me.

I lean forward, propping my elbows on my thighs and rest my chin on my folded hands. "I pretty much gave you the story on the phone. But there's more that you don't know. Lanie left me with a shit-storm to deal with, and I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do."

Shannon folds his arms over his chest and studies me. "What do you mean? What kind of shit-storm?"

I glance at Kristov before I answer. "An Ivan Valkov shit-storm."

Shannon's brows knit together. "Ivan? What's  _he_  got to do with anything?"

I take a deep breath. "I know you know about the blackmail." At Shannon's nod, I continue, "Before she left, Lanie got those photos of Kristov and me back, Shannon."

Shannon's frown reverses and a look of shock replaces it.  _"What?_  Holy shit! How the fuck did she do that?"

I never told Shannon about Ivan's offer to give me the photos in exchange for a night with my wife, and I don't tell him now, either. Instead I skirt around his question and continue, "Lanie got a lot more than those photos from him, Shannon. Turns out I wasn't the only one." I go on to list the names of the celebrities whose photos are in the manila envelopes, and I finish with, "She also stole a laptop from him and about two dozen thumb drives. All encrypted. As we speak, David and Gene are trying to get through the encryption and see what's on them."

"Are you fucking serious?" Shannon breathes. "You have all this  _here?"_  At my nod, he murmurs, "Wow. You weren't kidding about a shit-storm."

Kristov has gone rigid again beside me, and when I look at him, he's staring back at me with wide eyes and his face is ashen in a way that has nothing to do with the pain he's in. "You never told me Ivan had pictures of Emily, Jared," he murmurs.

 _Oh, shit._  I grit my teeth and nod. "I didn't want to tell you because I know she's your friend."

"You're absolutely certain it's her?" he presses.

I nod. "Yes."

Kristov closes his eyes, shaking his head. "Oh, God, Emily is Chris's world. If he finds out she was unfaithful to him, it'll destroy him."

My throat works. "I—I don't think she was unfaithful to him. I believe these pictures were taken quite a few years ago, before she and Chris even met, because Emily looks quite a bit younger in them." Not that it matters if they were taken after Emily and Chris got together, since I'd hardly call rape an act of infidelity.

Kristov doesn't let it go, though. "She wasn't famous quite a few years ago, Jared. She's only been in the business a short time and isn't very well known even now. What reason would Ivan have to have any photos of her from before she became an actress?"

I shrug. "Racy photos of celebrities taken before they became famous are pretty fucking valuable. God knows I've had a few crop up from time to time."

"So let's review," Shannon cuts in, getting up from the beanbag chair. He begins to pace restlessly around the living room. "Your wife left you, but before she did she had some kind of meeting with Ivan Valkov. During this meeting, she managed to get her hands on not only the photos of you two that Ivan and his daughter have been holding over your head for months, but stacks more of other celebrities, plus a laptop,  _plus_  a bunch of thumb drives. Ivan then gets in a car wreck and is now at Cedars in a coma. Your wife splits town, leaving her wedding ring  _and_  her daughter behind, and from the sounds of it she's planning to completely disappear and cut off all contact with everyone." Shannon stops pacing and stands staring down at me, his hazel eyes penetrating. "Is that the gist of it?"

"Yeah," I say with a nod. "That's about it."

Shannon rubs his forehead with two fingers, squinting like he has a sudden headache. "Shit, man. Do you think—" he pauses and grimaces. "Lanie doesn't fuck around, Jared. She can be ruthless. Right? I mean, look what she did to me in Oak Creek Canyon when she thought I might be someone hunting her down. She pulled a gun and a knife on me." He rubs the side of his neck where there's still a small pink scar, and I know he's remembering the bite of Lanie's blade that inadvertently nicked him during their struggle in the woods. "So it's not a stretch to think maybe she—well, that maybe she had something to do with Ivan's car accident."

"It's not a stretch, but the authorities haven't mentioned anything about foul play being a factor," I reply. "Until they do, it's speculation. Right now my concern is about these photos and what's on that laptop and those drives and what the fuck I'm gonna do with all of it." I glance at Kristov again. "It has to be handled carefully, because I don't want anything that'll come back on me or connect me with any of this bullshit."

Shannon flops back in the beanbag chair again. "Well, I say destroy it. Burn it all. Poof, gone, problem solved. Nobody ever has to know about any of it."

I nod. "I've considered it. But that'll let Ivan off the hook, and that just doesn't sit right with me."

Shannon arches an eyebrow. "Given the fact that he may die, what difference would it make? Even if he pulls through, he no longer has anything over you or any of these people. And if Lanie did have anything to do with that accident and the investigation leads here, how's it gonna look if the authorities want to search this place and you're sitting with all that stuff? I think your best course of action is to destroy it and not say a word about it beyond this room."

"I think Shannon's right, Jared," Kristov agrees. "Lanie took all of Ivan's ammunition from him. Whether he lives or dies, he's finished."

It makes sense. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. But even if Ivan never wakes up, Katia is still a volatile loose end who is probably more than aware of what her father's activities consisted of. She no longer has access to those damaging photos of me, no, but she knew about Ivan's suggested alternative involving Lanie. Even Katia is smart enough to figure out who was behind the disappearance of the photos and laptop and she's vindictive enough to implicate me any way she can no matter what I do with the evidence. "Fuuuck," I groan.

"Uncle Shannon!" Shelby yells as Mom and Shelby make their appearance in the archway. Shannon leaps to his feet again to give both our mother and Shelby a hug, and Shelby clings to him like a monkey. She's chattering like one too as Mom turns our way. Kristov again goes stiff and apprehensive, but my mother favors him with a huge smile. "Kristov!" she exclaims as he slowly rises to his feet to greet her politely. She ignores his extended hand and gives him a hug. Mindful of his still-tender stomach, her embrace is a gentler one than what she gave Shannon. "God, it's been so long since I've seen you!" she says, her smile radiant. "Too long."

Kristov hugs her back and he glances at me over her shoulder. There's a genuine smile on his lips and a wet glimmer in his eyes that makes my throat tighten up. It's now that the impact truly hits me. I realize just how much it means that my family still treats Kristov with the same kindness they did when we were together. As an only child and with the tumultuous relationship with his father Yuri, my mom and brother were once the closest thing to a loving family Kristov's had since his mother died when he was a kid. I can almost see a weight lift from his shoulders as my mom kisses his cheek and tells him how happy she is that he and I have reconnected, that he's out of that horrific abusive situation, and that he's safe now.

"Nobody has the right to hurt you, Kristov," she stresses, pulling away from him. She grips his arms and looks up at him, her eyes earnest. "Nobody has the right to put you down and put his hands on you. That's not love." She gives him a little shake. "Do you hear me?  _That's not love."_

"I know." Kristov nods, biting his lip. A tear spills over and runs down his cheek."I know that now, Constance." Although he is speaking to my mother, it's me he's looking at.

 

***

 

That evening, after many false starts and mind-changing, I grit my teeth and call Emily Pine's cell phone. Thank God we all exchanged numbers the night of the first cookout, because I really didn't want to have to go through Chris to talk to his wife. "I need to meet with you," I tell her when she answers. "Would you have some time tomorrow?"

"Ummm, I suppose so. I got errands to run tomorrow anyway. Why? What's up?"

"I'd...really rather not get into it over the phone," I answer, my voice tight.

"This sounds serious. Is it Lanie? Are y'all gonna try to work this out and you need some advice? I ain't exactly a marriage counselor, y'know. Ain't even played one on TV—not yet, anyway."

"No. It's not about Lanie. It's—"

"Is it Kristov, then? Is he okay?"

"Kristov's fine, it's nothing to do with either of them, but it's urgent that I meet with you. And Emily, it has to be you alone. If you want to tell Chris about it afterward, that's up to you."

"You're being awfully cryptic," Emily comments, sounded a touch guarded. "But okay. Where do you want to meet at?"

I ponder her question for a few seconds. "My place. Say around noon or so. You know where I live, right?"

Emily snorts and I quickly realize the foolishness of the question. "Jared," she chuckles, "I think  _everyone_  knows where you live."


	22. Jared

"Kris, what the hell are you doing?" I ask the following morning as I lean against the kitchen doorway with my arms crossed over my chest.

Kristov throws a glance over his shoulder at me as he bends to slide a plate in the lower rack of the dishwasher. "What does it look like? I'm doing the dishes."

Earlier, the four of us-Kristov, Shannon, Shelby, and me-enjoyed a pancake breakfast together before Shelby headed off to school with Tyrell and Jimmy. Shannon's now in the studio waiting for me to join him so he can play the track he wants me to consider for the album.

I shake my head and push off from the doorway. Crossing the kitchen to stand next to the sink, I say, "It's not necessary. You don't have to do this."

Kristov shrugs as he rinses off another plate. "I fully expect to help out around here." He nods at the window over the sink. "If you have gardening tools, I think maybe I'll trim some of those bushes around the back of the pool this afternoon while you're busy in the studio."

"Yeah, I've got equipment for yard work, but Jesus, Kris, that's not necessary either. You still need to take it easy. Besides, I have a company on contract that takes care of the landscaping as well as the pool itself."

"I'm sick of taking it easy. And I feel much better today." Kristov looks out the window again, and then gives me a sidelong smirk along with a raised eyebrow. "Have you forgotten to pay your landscaping company or something?"

I frown. "No, I don't think so. Magda handles all that shit for me. Why?"

"Hmph." Kristov leans over in front of me to put the plate in the dishwasher. The sensation of his firm shoulder brushing against my chest sends an alarming tingle of electricity through my body. For a crazy minute I'm torn between stepping away and pressing into that incidental contact.

Maybe I'm imagining that buzz, since Kristov doesn't seem fazed. He says casually, without missing a beat, "Jared, love, in case you haven't noticed, these grounds as well as the pool need some attention. You're in luck though, because I happen to enjoy doing that kind of work."

My eyebrows lift in surprise. The Kristov I know is strictly an indoor type of guy, preferring the gym to stay in shape rather than the great outdoors. Back in the day it was like pulling teeth just to get him to go on a hike with me. I look at him doubtfully. "You do? Since when?"

"Since I had a yard to do something with." A shadow crosses his face as he adds, "When I moved in with Alex."

"Oh." I'd certainly noticed how both the front and the backyard of the Los Feliz house were immaculately kept, not a hedge leaf or meticulously cultivated flower out of place in the many beds around the property. I'd assumed they'd employed a service. That was all  _Kristov's_ work?

"It's a good way to get outside, get fresh air," Kristov explains with a smile. "Those things you always used to nag me about." He drops a handful of silverware into the dishwasher's utensil basket. "Plus I've found I like working with my hands and I'm good at it." His smile widens. "It probably sounds strange to you, but I really enjoyed mowing the lawn."

"Great," I say weakly.

It's then that my imagination is suddenly filled with the visual of Kristov, long coal-black hair tied in a loose knot, dark shades covering his eyes, mowing that big green lawn under the blazing sun of a hot midsummer sky. Clad only in a pair of ass-hugging shorts, corded muscles rippling under smooth skin gleaming with sweat. The sharp, earthy aroma of cut grass blends with Kristov's unique, delicious scent. My heart pounds in my chest and a hard knot forms in my stomach. Something else begins to harden too at the visual of this insanely hot man who effortlessly exudes sex from every pore.

"Jared?"

Kristov's voice cuts through my daydream. He's standing frozen, pancake griddle in his soapy hands, and he's staring at me over his shoulder. There's a flash of something else in that expression, and I know exactly what it is. I've seen that heated look in those hypnotic dark eyes before, too many times to count.

_Christ! What the fuck am I doing?_

I'm touching him, that's what. Running my fingertips slowly up and down his spine, feeling every bump and ridge, the pulsing heat between his body and my fingers growing with every second that passes.

I yank my hand away as if I've been burned, blood reversing course and shooting straight up to my face. Muttering an apology, I step back, bumping my side painfully against the corner of the center island work-space. Before Kristov can say another word, I turn and flee the kitchen, heading for the safety of my studio and my brother.

 

***

 

  
_Talk about it_

_I'm searchin' for a remedy_

_Scream about it_

_I'm searchin' for a remedy_

The last strains of guitar chords fade away, and I open my eyes. Shannon, sitting directly across from me at the computer, is watching me, gauging my reactions, his face filled with a mixture of anxiety and hope.

I don't give an immediate verbal reaction to Shannon's song, but only because I don't know what to say. It's that good. That powerful, and I don't have adequate words to describe what it is I'm feeling.

"Well?" Shannon presses, fidgeting in his chair. "What do you think?"

"I think..." I begin slowly, still trying to come up with something that can encompass how blown away I am right now.

"It sucks, huh?" Shannon looks away, sighing. There's defeat in his voice. "Yeah, okay. I'm not a singer. I'm probably not really a songwriter, either. I beat the skins. That's my job, right? But I just thought-"

_"Shannon."_

My brother looks at me, palpable disappointment in his hazel eyes that's quickly swept away when he sees my mile-wide grin.

"I think if we don't put this song on the album, we'd be doing you, the album, the fans, and the whole fucking world a huge disservice." Getting to my feet, I cross the studio and grasp Shannon's chin, forcing him to look up at me.  _"And,_  you're going to get out from behind your kit, stand center stage, and you're gonna sing it on tour."

Shannon's happy expression fades again, replaced with a look of horror. "Like fuck I am!" he cries. "No way, man.  _No._  I can't sing live."

"You can and you will." My tone leaves no room for argument. "We've already agreed you're doing background vocals for  _Rider,_  right?"

"That's different," Shannon argues, jerking his chin out of my grasp. "I'm not the showman you are. Christ, Jared! My voice'll crack with nerves, I'll stand up there making a total ass out of myself and I'll probably forget the lyrics, too."

I snicker. "It's a rare show that I don't forget lyrics and you know that better than anyone."

Shannon shakes his head. "Yeah, but at least you look pretty, so nobody gives a shit or even notices when  _you_  fuck up."

I raise an eyebrow. "And you're not pretty? C'mon." I give him a gentle punch on the shoulder. "I wanna hear it again. What's the title?  _Remedy?"_

"Uh-huh," Shannon answers, and hits the playback button on the computer. Resting my hands on Shannon's shoulders, once again I close my eyes and let the song fill me, and when it's over I ask him when he wrote it and what inspired the lyrics, though I have a pretty good idea.

A pained expression crosses his face. "A few years ago after I got clean I looked around at these people I used to turn on with. I saw them still stuck in that same hell, y'know? And without the support system I had with you, Mom, and this band. I thought about what it's like to feel that alone and powerless, and how lucky I am to have come out of it." He shrugs. "I guess I thought about people we knew personally, like Chester, like Chris Cornell, about how many other people out there are dealing with shit like addiction, depression and loneliness and all the rest of it, and decided that I finally have something I wanna say that's from just me, from my own experience, you know?"

I swallow around the tightness in my throat. "Yeah. It's a beautiful song, Shannon. It's relevent, powerful, and a whole lot of people will relate to it. I can't wait for the world to hear it."

Shannon's smile is slow but pure. "It's gonna be weird for me. Shit, it's a little scary to put myself out there like this."

"Get used to it," I say with a smile. "When the fans realize that's your voice, they're gonna want to hear a hell of a lot more of it." It's the truth, too. Shannon's voice is quite different from mine; soft, a hint of rasp, with no particular quirks to it like mine has. The song is simple, with just an acoustic guitar and a subtle background of keys, but it's incredibly powerful in that simplicity because it puts the lyrics front and center, where they belong. Authentic, organic, and I know the Echelon will go wild for it.

 

 

"Where are we at with  _One Track Mind?"_ Shannon asks later on as I'm tweaking some of the electronic effects on  _Hail to the Victor._ "Stevie said you're thinking about doing one version with A$AP and one without."

"Yeah," I answer, still studying the screen. We just upgraded our DAW to Ableton 10 and honestly, though it's designed to be more streamlined and user-friendly, I'm still trying to figure out my way around it. "I think we'll have the digital track with A$AP, and the analog without. Tomo and Stevie both recorded an extended guitar solo in place of his part."

"Speaking of Tomo, something's going on with him," Shannon says as he thumps his kick drum a few times and then bends to make an adjustment to the pedal. "Stevie thinks he and Vicki might be having some issues."

I frown and turn away from the computer. "Like what issues?"

Shannon straightens and gives me a slight shake of his head. "No clue. Tomo hasn't said anything to me about any problems."

I sigh. I hope Stevie's wrong, but I have noticed Tomo's preoccupation from time to time over the last few weeks, like his head's not fully in the game. But he hasn't said anything to me either, so hopefully Stevie's suspicions are unfounded. With an album release and a tour coming up, the last thing we need is yet another personal crisis getting in the way. I have enough of them of my own for all of us and then some. I pick up my headphones and slide them into place, starting  _Hail to the Victor_  over again, listening as my own voice fills my ears.

Just as the first bass drop reverberates through my body, there's a tap on my shoulder. I look up to see Shannon pointing at the door. "What?" I ask, removing my headphones again.

"Kristov came down and said Emily Pine is here to see you."

"Fuck, is it noon already?" I glance at the time in the corner of the computer screen. It's twelve-thirty. I get to my feet, arching my back to work the kink out of it. "I'll probably be awhile," I inform Shannon.

"Stevie and Tomo are supposed to be here in a couple of hours," Shannon reminds me. "Will you be done by then?"

I start toward the door. "No idea. If not, don't wait for me." I open the studio door and head upstairs, dreading this meeting with every fiber of my being.

Kristov is at the top of the stairs, watching me approach. With difficulty, I meet his eyes, willing myself not to blush or do anything else stupid. But I flash on that weird and embarrassing episode in the kitchen this morning and I can't help but visibly cringe.

But if Kristov notices, he doesn't remark on it. Instead he says, "Emily's in the living room." He hesitates, and then adds, "I'll be outside if you need me."

I look up at him. "Good. Thanks, Kris."

Kristov squeezes my shoulder, and then suddenly his lips brush lightly against my cheek, leaving a tingle in their wake. "She's a strong lady, Jared. But everyone has their limits," he says quietly in my ear.

I know what he's saying. I have to be very careful in how I reveal these photos to Emily. She likely has no idea that her attack was captured on film, and I can't imagine the horror she's going to experience upon learning of the photos' existence. I go to my bedroom and grab the manila envelope, studying the block letters on it. I feel sick to my stomach as I head back to the front of the house.

I step through the archway and down into the living room, silently observing while desperately trying to gather my thoughts about how to break such devastating news to a sweet and compassionate woman I've so quickly come to consider a good friend.

Emily's back is toward me as she's looking at the artwork on the walls, studying my various pieces. She goes from one to the next, the heels of her cowboy boots clumping on areas of the floor not covered in Persian rugs. There's something so decidedly un-Hollywood about Emily, but yet she still fits in the world. No wonder Kristov and she became friends, and Chris Pine fell in love with her.

When I feel my thoughts are somewhat in order, I announce my presence by clearing my throat. I grip the manila envelope tightly.

Emily turns at the sound, a bright smile lighting up her delicate features as her clear blue eyes meet mine. "Hey, Jared," she greets me with that adorable hint of Texas twang. "Sorry I'm a little late. Traffic was a bitch." She gives a helpless shrug.

I step down into the living room with a smile that probably looks as forced as it feels. "Hi, Emily. It's fine. Thanks for coming over." I give her cheek a kiss, which she returns with one of her own. I catch a whiff of her perfume and recognize the scent. Armani Code for Women.

Her face is open and unguarded as she grins at me. "Well, you sounded pretty mysterious on the phone, and got my curiosity going. What's up?" Her eyes flit to the envelope I'm still clutching in a death grip, and then back to my face, studying me closely. A slight frown crosses her features. "Hey, are you okay?"

Yeah, I definitely don't have my poker face on right now. I know that Emily of all people would see through any attempt to mask my inner turmoil. I draw a deep breath and indicate the sofa. "Please. Sit down."

The frown deepens, but Emily sits near the corner of the sectional. She folds her hands together and presses them between her knees. I take a seat nearby on the other side of the corner so we can face each other, and I lay the envelope across my lap, the side with the name LAWRENCE written on it facing up. Emily looks down at it, her eyes widening just a bit as she reads her last name. "What is that?" she asks, indicating the envelope.

God, how can I tell her? I draw a deep breath and plunge ahead. "Emily, do you know who Ivan Valkov is?"

The look that crosses Emily's face can only be described as stricken. But only for a moment, and then her expression darkens. "He's that bastard who told me to strip," she bites out.

That's the last thing I expect her to say. "Excuse me?" I utter, startled. "He told you to  _strip?"_

Emily's clenched hands in her lap tighten as she nods. "This was a while ago, during an audition." Her jaw shifts side to side and then she continues, "He was the money man for a big feature film in development at Miramax, and he wanted to personally make sure the lead actress had what he called 'the goods'. Both he and Harvey demanded I get naked in front of them. In front of both of them." Her face flushes and she looks down at her lap. "It was a fuckin' nightmare."

"Harvey. You mean Harvey Weinstein, right?" I ask as gently as I can manage, though inside I'm seething. Of course I know Emily's talking about the infamous Weinstein, but I need to hear her confirm it. When she does, I let out a long breath. "Shit, Emily. What did you do?"

Emily looks up at me, a strange smile on her face. "I looked both Ivan and Harvey square in the face and told them that I'll strip when they do, because I wanna see what kind of dicks I'm workin' with." She shakes her head. "Then I told them I don't need the part bad enough to degrade myself like that, and I walked out." She wrings her hands together and then adds quietly, "Chris doesn't even know about it. I never told him what happened, just that I had an audition that didn't go well."

Although I know what Ivan's capable of, not to mention Weinstein, I stare wide-eyed at Emily, shocked beyond measure at the way she, a relatively unknown actress, stuck to her principles and stood up to a couple of powerful men in the industry, when it had to have been tempting, at least on some level, to acquiesce to their perverted demands. My respect for Emily Pine grows even more, and so does my dread at revealing the contents of the envelope. "Holy shit," I murmur weakly. "I bet that pissed them off."

Emily smirks. "Probably. I didn't stick around long enough to get their reactions." Her eyes drop to the envelope again. "So...dare I ask again what that is?"

I worry my bottom lip for a minute before I answer. "Ivan Valkov is a monster. Easily as bad as Weinstein."

Emily nods. "I kinda got that impression, yeah."

I hold her gaze. "He blackmailed me for months, forcing me into a public relationship with his daughter, Katia. If I refused-" I run my fingers over the flap of the envelope- "he would expose me. He had photos in his possession that he would release to the public, photos that could potentially derail my career."

"Let me guess, pictures that would show you in an unflattering light?"

I sigh. "Yeah. Well, that would depend on who saw them whether they're unflattering or not. They were taken by a professional, but the subject matter was not exactly something I wanted the public to see." Why am I beating around the bush? I take a deep breath. "They're sexually explicit photos of me...with Kristov."

Emily's eyes grow round. "Oh. Holy shit, Jared! How did Ivan get his hands on those?"

"It's not important. The point is, he had them. He had a collection of photos of that type, not only of me but several other celebrities having sex, and if I named names, you'd know every single one of them."

Emily looks a trifle ill. "Had. You keep saying Ivan  _had_  these pictures. Past tense. He doesn't have them anymore?"

I shake my head. "Lanie stole them from him. She left them with me, and..." I trail off, because I don't think Emily's heard a word I've just said. Her eyes are fixed on the envelope in my lap again and her face has gone parchment-white as it all comes together.

"Oh, my God," she whispers. "Jared, are you telling me that Ivan Valkov had pictures...of  _me_ having sex? Is that what's in that envelope?"

I swallow hard and find I can't say a word. But I don't have to. My expression is saying it all. Emily brings a trembling hand to her mouth, her blue eyes huge as they raise to meet mine. "I- I don't understand... _"_

I reach over and take Emily's other hand. "I don't know how he got ahold of these, but Emily-" I stop, wondering how the fuck to say it. "Emily, I did look at them. I'm sorry, I had no idea by the name Lawrence that it was you. But-"

Emily pulls her hand away from mine and vehemently shakes her head. "I've never even been naked for the camera, Jared. I never  _would,_  unless it was required as part of a role. And I sure as hell have never had sex on camera. So I'm sorry, but that is  _not_  me."

I grimace. "I don't think these were taken with your knowledge and consent, Emily. And it looks like what was happening wasn't consensual, either."

I know my words have struck a nerve. Emily's eyes lift to mine again, and there's dawning comprehension in them. Comprehension, and unspeakable horror. God, why didn't I do as Shannon suggested and just burn all of these photos? What purpose is there in bringing a nightmare of the past back into Emily's life, when she's finally found peace?

"Emily?" I say gently, reaching for her hand again.

"No," she whispers. Tears well in her eyes. "I can't believe Mark would really have done that."

"Mark is your ex-husband, right?"

Her hand is ice-cold in mine. "He...he threatened me that night. Said that he'd make me the 'star' that I always wanted to be... I didn't know what he meant by that, but I never thought...not then...please, give it to me." She gestures for the envelope and after a moment's hesitation, I hand it over to her.

Emily undoes the clasp and opens the flap. Her hand shakes as she slides one of the photos out. Not all the way, but just enough to see most of the image. If it's possible, her face grows even more ashen, her eyes even more pain-filled. And I'm drowning all the more in regret at putting it all there.

But when I verbalize these thoughts and what I should've done with these photos...what I would still do if she wants me to, Emily tears her eyes from them and they lock on mine. They're hard, like blue chips of ice. When she speaks, her voice is cold and completely unlike her, too. "Are you serious right now? How could I trust that you would actually destroy these, Jared? How do I know that you wouldn't try to use these for your own reasons too? Easy. I don't. Yeah, you brought my past back to haunt me. Thanks for that."

I recoil like I've been punched. "Emily, Christ! I don't know what kind of asshole you take me for, but I don't play games like that. I just meant-"

"What?"

I pass a hand over my face, trying to keep my voice calm and my defenses under control. "I wanted to make you aware of the existence of these photos because just like me and several other people, Ivan Valkov was using them against you. Maybe he hadn't made a move yet on you, and maybe now that he's a vegetable in a hospital bed at Cedars we'll never know what he had planned, but as your friend I felt you should know. Was that a mistake?" I let out a harsh breath. "Maybe it was, because I've put you back into a horrible place you left behind long ago, and for that I'm more sorry than you can imagine.

"But do not  _ever_  accuse me of having ulterior motives, Emily. Not when I just went through the hell of being blackmailed by that motherfucker myself!" I leap to my feet, cursing under my breath. I walk to the closest window and stare out at the warm sunny afternoon, trying to calm down because I know Emily's lashing out from a place of shock and fury and that I can't take her wild accusations personally.

A sobbing sound makes me turn from the window. Emily's face is buried in her hands, the envelope is lying on the floor in front of her, pictures half out of it. Her shoulders tremble-her whole body is shaking. I abandon the window and my defenses crumble as I sit next to her and wrap an arm around her. I'm not good with emotional women at all, avoiding them like the plague if I can. But that's definitely not an option right now. Shit, I think I need Kristov's help, but no. This is all on me, and I'll do what I can for Emily.

I let her cry. Finally after a several minutes, the sobbing eases, and she whispers brokenly, "I'm...sorry. I never should have said those things. I know you would never do anything like that. I'm just...so angry, and feel so completely powerless right now, just like I did when-" she shudders and I hold her tighter against me.

"When were these taken? When you were married to the ex?" I ask gently.

Emily's head nods against my shoulder. "The night before I left Mark for good." She sniffles and sits up straight. "I'd saved up some money, and I flew to Ohio the next day." She looks at me, her eyes red and damp. "I felt so scared the whole time. I thought that he was behind every corner just waiting to grab me and take me back. I didn't feel safe until I got home and saw my parents waiting for me at the airport."

I rub her shoulder and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. "I'm so glad you got out, Emily. And I'm so glad that you found a good guy like Chris. He knows about what happened? About the-" I find myself almost choking on the word- "the rape?"

"Yeah, he does. It took me so long to tell him. I was afraid that he wouldn't want me after...I told him." Emily smiles softly, reminiscing. "But he held on even tighter. Called me one of the strongest women he'd ever known. That was almost three years ago."

I find tears stinging my own eyes. "He was right. You are a strong woman, Emily. And one I'm proud to call my friend." I look down at the envelope on the floor. "What are you going to do with those?"

She follows my gaze. "To be honest, I don't have a fucking clue. I'm not going to keep them a secret from Chris. He needs to know. And then I'll hang on to them. Maybe we can use them to our advantage somehow."

I nod. "I didn't think you would keep them from him. I just-" I tug at my beard and shake my head. "I think it's best that I destroy the others Lanie left here." I turn to Emily. "How do you suppose Ivan got his hands on them? From Mark apparently, but is there any possibility of a connection there that you can think of?"

Emily shakes her head. "No. Although, Mark was one of those guys that was always willing to make a quick buck. I have no doubt he would have sold these to the highest bidder. Mark knows who Chris is, and he knows that I was linked to him when we were dating..."

"Mmm." I frown thoughtfully. "Well, Ivan's connected from one end of this town to another, that's for sure. And beyond. If my guys could just get through that damn encryption on his laptop..."

"Laptop?" Emily echoes, looking at me quizzically.

It's then that I realize I haven't told Emily everything yet. I tell her now, and her eyes widen all over again. "Holy shit," she says when I'm finished. "Lanie's got some serious titanium balls, doesn't she. She really is a force to be reckoned with."

"Yeah, she sure is," I agree. "I just hope she's okay."

"She bested Ivan Valkov. She's more than okay, Jared," Emily says confidently. "But I do hope she gets in touch with you soon and eases your mind. How's Shelby handling everything?"

I smile at that. "Shelby's a miniature version of her mother. Nothing much fazes her, except the idea of leaving here, obviously. But she misses her mom, too. She's putting up a brave front, but I can see it."

"She sounds like Mac. No wonder those two got on thick as thieves."

"We'll have to arrange for them to hang out again soon," I suggest. "For sure before I go on tour in March."

"Well, the offer is still open for her to stay with us," Emily suggests. "Chris doesn't leave until the end of May for a new project. By that time, school will be out."

"Yeah, I appreciate the offer. I'll give it some thought. Lanie said she'd be back at the end of February to discuss arrangements for Shelby while I'm on tour, but with her being completely out of contact for the foreseeable future, I don't know what's going on yet."

"'Out of contact'? What the hell do you mean by that?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb and sigh heavily. "She told Flora she was ditching her phone and going off the grid completely, and by all indications that's exactly what she's doing. I have absolutely no way of contacting her. I know if I send someone to track her down, she'll run. She indicated as much."

Emily's brow furrows. "Well, fuck. I didn't tell her to do that when I talked to her."

I shake my head. "No. This was something she decided to do on her own. It's her way of handling things...or not handling them, as the case may be." I sit back on the couch and cross my arms over my chest "At least she entrusted Shelby to my care. Had she taken her and the two of them vanished like this, I'd lose my fucking mind." A thought crosses my mind then. I kind of dread the answer, but I have to ask the question anyway. "Um, have you heard anything from Alex?"

"No. I see him coming and going but he hasn't said a word to me. And he'd better not. I swear if he does, I will plant my boot so far up his ass he'll need surgery to get it out."

I snicker. "Talk about titanium balls."

"Nah, that's just the Texan in me. We protect our own. Kristov is one of us. Just like you, Shelby and Lanie are." Emily pauses, bites her lip for a second and then says, "Well, I thought Lanie was, and maybe she still can be, if she wants to be."

"Yeah," I say faintly, looking away from Emily's earnest blue eyes and the glimmer of hope in them that doesn't exist within myself. "Maybe."


	23. Lanie

The glowing lights of the Flying J Truck Stop rise like a welcoming beacon in the night, an oasis for the road-weary amidst the endlessly desolate, snow-covered landscape of Eastern Montana. I pull my Jeep into the huge, brightly illuminated lot and search for an out of the way space to park. I locate one quickly, one that's probably avoided due to its distance from the building and the lack of bright lights overhead. 

The fact that it's unlit suits me perfectly, however. I pull into the space and park, anxious to get out and get blood flowing in my legs again. I pull up my hood against the frigid breeze, and hurry toward the restaurant attached to the truck stop. I'm more than ready for a bite to eat and some coffee. The temperature is near-zero and while I'm hardly dressed appropriately for it in just a hoodie and jeans, I'm not terribly affected. After the winter I've just spent in warm, sunny Southern California, I was afraid I'd already de-acclimated, but fortunately the cold here in the northern states hasn't really bothered me.

I've made damn good time so far, considering the fact that I've mostly avoided the interstates and stopped to change plates in every state I cross. My Jeep currently sports Montana plates from a totaled-out 2015 Wrangler I found in an unlocked and unguarded scrapyard at the edge of some shithole town just over the border. The body style of the wrecked vehicle was similar enough should an inquisitive state trooper decide to run the plates. But I haven't seen many cops at all on the trip, another bonus of avoiding the main freeways. The Montana plates will be swapped out tomorrow morning after I cross into North Dakota, and then once more after I cross the Red River into Minnesota.

I stretch my arms over my head as I cross the lot, reflecting on the journey thus far. Three days of zig-zagging across the country on secondary roads, some of which were snow-covered and treacherous in higher elevations the further north I went. The trip sure would've been a whole lot easier if I'd kept to a more direct route on well-traveled freeways, or if I at least had my phone's GPS to map my way rather than the physical maps I'd relied on instead.

A whole lot of things would be easier if I'd kept my phone. But that is precisely why I'd gotten rid of it after one final conversation with Flora DuSchene. My course was set then, and it's still set now. No going back.

Still, I've sometimes felt—not regret, exactly, or any pressing urge to turn around since leaving L.A. But something pricked at me. A tiny thread of  _what-if_  mindfuckery, I suppose. I felt it as recently as this morning, when I woke up in the roadside motel near the Montana border. But, as I've done each time the temptation threatened to overwhelm my good sense, I ignored it and pressed on. I can't give in to second thoughts or second chances. My actions set my course, and there simply is no other option than to keep going.

But I can't help wondering about the fallout I've left behind.

I follow the restaurant hostess to a small table for two. It sits in front of a hallway that leads to the restrooms, the trucker's shower area, and I also have a fairly unobstructed view of the trucker's lounge. A handful of drivers are in there, some eating, some doing paperwork, one playing pinball on a rather dilapidated-looking machine in a back corner. The remaining few are looking at their phones, and a couple of guys are watching the local ten o'clock news on the big TV mounted on the far wall.

I order coffee and a burger basket from a redheaded middle-aged waitress who looks as exhausted as I feel. I'm glad I can include meat in my diet again without guilt or recriminating looks from anyone. My first meat purchase was a package of tempting-looking buffalo jerky that I chewed on while driving through Nevada. It was delicious, and the unsettled stomach I'd had to contend with for awhile afterward was worth getting some easy protein and iron.

While waiting for my meal to arrive, I keep my eye on the news broadcast. I can't hear the television over the pinball machine or the clattering of dishes and conversation around me, but I can see the screen. I'm mostly interested in the weather report, because before sundown some heavy gray clouds appeared in the horizon to the northwest. Blizzards here in the northern plains can be crazy brutal, resulting in frequent road closures, and I need to be prepared for the possibility that my carefully planned route may have to change.

Fortunately, despite the ominous-looking clouds it appears only scattered light flurries are forecast. I relax a bit, digging into my bacon cheeseburger and fries when they arrive. I smother the burger in ketchup as the newscast switches from the weather to sports and I lose interest in it altogether. My mind drifts this way and that as deep-seated road fatigue catches up with me, the kind of sleepiness that no amount of caffeine will overcome. I'd planned to drive as far as the little border town of Bowman, North Dakota before calling it a night, but my heavy eyelids are demanding that I find a nearby motel that'll accept cash.

The waitress comes back to clear my empty plate and deliver the check. I pick up my coffee and finish it off intending to give her the empty cup as well. As I drink, I catch a glance at the TV again. When I see what's filling the fifty-five inch screen I leap to my feet with a loud curse, startling the waitress and nearly dropping my coffee cup at her feet for good measure. 

"Miss?" the waitress says. But I pay no attention. I abandon my table and hurry toward the trucker's lounge, my focus solely on what's taking place on the television.

"Miss, you're really not supposed to go in there. That's the trucker's lounge," the waitress calls behind me. I ignore her and keep walking toward the small room as I watch the drama unfolding on camera at the gate of Jared's Laurel Canyon compound.

As I step into the small lounge, leaving the noise of the main restaurant dining room behind me, I can hear the TV as well as see it.  My heart thumps crazily in my chest as the scene unfolds. There's Emily, sitting in a black Porsche convertible, yelling at someone near the camera. There's Jimmy, chewing out someone too and attempting to shield both Emily and Jared with his big body. And there's Jared, stepping out from behind Jimmy and looking about as pissed as I've ever seen him. He points a finger in the face of another cameraman and lets loose a stream of screaming profanity, all which is bleeped out.

Movement catches my eye in the background. The camera zooms in too, and there's Kristov near the portico covering the main entrance. He's holding something in one hand, and upon a closer look as the camera zooms even closer in on him, I see he's clutching my blue and white striped gardening gloves.

_What in the fuck is happening?_

I get my answer quickly. According to the ungodly annoying voiceover, what happened was something about Emily and Jared being seen first exiting the house together, and then exchanging a long hug beside the car.  The paparazzi on the scene are now asking both Emily and Jared the usual stupid questions about the nature of their relationship. Emily's temper has clearly flared—her eyes are narrowed, and her mouth is set in an angry line—that is, when it's not moving as she gives the paparazzi an earful rife with Texas twang, and her displeasure is made complete with a blurred-out one-handed gesture—undoubtedly, a stiff middle finger.

"By golly," one trucker to my right mutters to his companion. They're both watching the TV with keen interest like I am. "That pretty lil gal's sure a feisty one, ain't she."

To call watching this crazy scene taking place on TV outside of the sprawling compound I called home for months 'surreal' would be the understatement of the century. Thank God there's no sign of Shelby anywhere, which means this altercation must have taken place before she arrived home from school.

Still, the thought that my little girl might be subject to those vultures gives me a momentary pause, an inkling of doubt as I second-guess the decision to leave her with Jared. What the fuck was I thinking, letting Emily Pine talk me into leaving her there, vulnerable to the unscrupulous leeches of the media? Can Jared along with Jimmy really be trusted to shield her from all that shit? They pretty much have so far, but it appears as more stories emerge and more publicity mounts, Jared's going to be a priority for the paparazzi.

This is proven when the camera cuts away to a crew of TMZ staff in a studio reacting to the clip that was shown, and as they talk amongst themselves I'm all the more certain I have to get to Minnesota and locate Shae Nielsen as soon as possible.

"So, the latest official word is that a sexual assault case against Jared Leto is being reviewed by the Los Angeles District Attorney's office." The middle aged man addressing the rest of them shakes his head and gives the assembled group a smirk, the kind of sneer that makes me want to reach through the screen and choke him. "It's been one thing after another with this guy lately, hasn't it?"

"It really has," a young woman in the group agrees. She glances at the computer monitor in front of her, taking a sip of whatever coffee beverage she's holding. "Okay, so, what I've gotten as of this afternoon from DA office spokesman Greg Riesling—and this is confirmed by a couple of other sources close to the matter who spoke on the condition of anonymity, too—the 2003 case is being reviewed by the D.A.'s office. The Police Department in Saint Paul, Minnesota officially filed their case on Wednesday."

"So is there a possibility of Jared being arrested and extradited to Minnesota to face charges?" another of the group asks.

"Good question. And what about the statute of limitations?" A long-haired guy asks, glancing at the woman and then at their ringleader. "I mean, we're talking about something that happened fourteen-plus years ago, right?"

"Who knows?" the main guy shrugs dismissively at the questions being bandied back and forth. "Right now I wanna know why Chris Pine's reported girlfriend was getting cozy with Jared outside his house, and why Kristov Belneczek, the same guy Jared's has been alleged to have had a secret sexual relationship with—is now hanging around Jared's place as well." His eyes gleam and his smile widens.

"Well, to make this even more interesting, Kristov Belneczek is legally married to prominent L.A. criminal defense attorney Alexander Whitfield, who just happens to be the same guy Jared and Chris Pine  _and_  Emily Lawrence got in a scuffle with just over a week ago," the young woman puts in. She's grinning like a Cheshire cat. The grin becomes laughter, and her eyes take on a particularly eager, feral quality. "Let's keep a close eye on this, guys. Looks like Jared's going to be keeping us all  _very_  busy." The group breaks up in laughter and high-fives, and my stomach twists into a hard, painful knot.

The waitress appears at my side, repeating that I'm in the trucker's lounge which is, well, for  _truck drivers,_  and to please return to the restaurant. A few of them turn and glance briefly but curiously at us. I mumble an apology to the waitress as TMZ cuts away to a commercial. I make my way back to my table, digging in my hoodie pocket for my wallet to pay the bill. After that's settled up, I leave the truck stop and set off in search of a nearby motel. My head is still spinning with what I just saw broadcast all over the TV, and only one thought fills my mind in the wake of it.

_Thank God I left L.A._

 

***

 

Despite what Jared and Emily think of me, I'm  _not_  a homophobe. Well, I never considered myself one, anyway. But to be honest, I really haven't given homosexual people much thought before, since to my knowledge I haven't before met or been around a gay or bi person, male or female, and thus have never had cause to have much of an opinion.  But despite that, in my heart of hearts and based on my own beliefs, I'm not convinced by the "born this way" narrative. I believe that, on some level at least, non-straight people—especially those like Jared who claim to be bisexual—identify and act on those urges by choice.

When I discovered Jared identifies as bisexual, I tried to be understanding for his sake because he seemed so distraught with fear that I'd turn my back on him when I found out. And at the time the whole thing was so abstract. Kristov was the only man he'd been with, and Kristov was part of Jared's past. Given all that had taken place, it was natural for me to assume that he would remain there. And so sure, in theory I could accept Jared being bisexual and understand the concept of him having a sexual attraction to men as well as women  _at one time._  At a time that had no direct impact on me or our relationship, other than Jared's ever-present fear of exposure. 

But the truth is, I don't comprehend how anyone can have romantic or sexual attraction to someone of the same sex, and I never will be able to think of Jared with a man— even one as attractive as Kristov Belneczek— and not feel a little sick and disgusted.  Seeing the photos of them together only served to confirm that feeling.

Still, that's no excuse for the way I lashed out at Jared. I could've been more tactful and not resorted to insulting, hateful language. But I was pissed and frustrated as hell at the presence of Kristov back in Jared's life, no matter how unwittingly that had come about by either of the two men. When Jared went ahead and let Kristov stay at the compound despite the way I felt about it, that completely changed everything. I knew immediately where it's eventually going to go, and I'm not about to stick around and watch it happen like some passive little doormat. I'm not going to humiliate myself by being put in the position where I have to compete for my own husband's affections, and I'm sure the hell not going to share my husband any more than I've been forced to already.

In my book, my leaving a marriage that should never have taken place isn't defeat. It's regaining control of my life. The funny thing is, in the cold light of day and with a fair degree of distance between us, I'm really not all that broken-hearted. I'm not disillusioned, I'm not grief-stricken or angry as I think I should be. I'm not that upset about it at all, in fact I'm very calm and at peace with the truth that my marriage to Jared is over.

 It's odd. I loved him. I loved everything about him that was mine to love. I still do, but I'm completely okay with the fact that it's over, and I can't help but wonder what that means. Who's the more fucked-up of us? Jared or me?

At the end of February, maybe sooner, depending on how everything pans out for me in Minnesota, I'm going to have to re-evaluate what I'm going to do about Shelby, which means a trip back to California, or else Jared will have to carve out time and arrange to bring Shelby to me before he leaves for Europe on tour, depending on my situation by then. Emily Pine helped me see the wisdom in leaving her in Jared's care for the time being. Despite all my misgivings about what's happening with all the bad publicity he's dealing with, I know I've done the right thing by my daughter.  Dragging her through this time of uncertainty and potential running wouldn't be fair to her, because I don't really know what awaits me next month, next week, or an hour from now. Especially after what happened that final night in L.A., the night I spent with Ivan Valkov.

I hadn't intended things to go as far as they did. I'd only wanted to get Jared's photos from Ivan as we'd agreed upon. But it went further than that. Much further, and now I have blood on my hands. Only the fact that Ivan's got more than blood on his keeps the guilt at a level that I can comfortably live with.

Well, unless I get caught. And so I have to make sure I don't get caught. Ever.

 

***

 

Fortunately, the weather holds overnight, and continues to remain storm-free through the entire next day. A surge of both excitement and dread fill me as I cross into Minnesota around noon, and by six the familiar sights of home are all around me. My heart beats faster as I roll through my hometown of Colvin Creek. When I left, everything was green and lush. Tonight it's bare-limbed trees and snow-covered forest giving way to houses and stores blanketed in white. Main Street is lit with the same old-fashioned style lantern-shaped street lights that've been there for as long as I can remember. Several cars are parked in front of the VFW. Then I remember it's Bingo Night, an event guaranteed to bring the locals out despite the subzero cold.

The rest of Main Street's businesses are dark except the gas station and motel on the other end of town. I catch sight of glowing green and purple northern lights streaking across the sky ahead as I leave the business district behind. Though I've seen this solar-and-ice phenomena every winter of my life, the sight of northern lights at their peak is still awe-inspiring.

As the speed limit picks up from thirty to forty-five, I wonder for the first time about McCarty Camp's accessibility. Since it's been abandoned, the long winding driveway hasn't been plowed all winter. I realize that between the impassible road and the fact that it's full dark, it would be smarter to wait until daylight to go survey what remains of my property.

Damn it, and I'm so fucking close to home, too. Sighing, I make a u-turn and head back toward the Pine Villa Motel, the last building before Colvin Creek's downtown gives over to a few houses and then to endless miles of dense forest. I wonder if the motel's owner, widower and octogenarian Alfie Randall, is sitting at the same old battered desk playing solitaire, an old thirteen-inch Sylvania portable TV with its foil-wrapped rabbit ears sitting in the corner of the office where it seems to pick up the Duluth stations best.

Why  _wouldn't_ Alfie be there? I have to remind myself again that I've only been away since the first part of September. It's hard to wrap my head around that—I feel like I've been gone at least four years, not four months. It's so odd to realize that nothing at all has changed in Colvin Creek, except the season. How can that be, when it seems as though everything has changed in me?

Alfie is half blind and deaf, and with my hoodie up, he doesn't recognize me— which is exactly as I'd hoped. I pay for a two-night stay in a single room, and scoot back out into the cold before the old man has a chance to bend my ear with his Polish jokes and stories about his late wife, Margie, who'd been my second-grade teacher.

Once in the room, I crank up the rickety, noisy heater and turn on the television. At least Alfie decided to upgrade the entertainment in this place and so there's satellite TV with a decent channel selection. I flop on the bed and surf channels until I find CNN. Erin Burnett's Out Front is on, and she's interviewing a woman who Erin introduces as an immigration expert. I tune out of their conversation and a heated debate with some guy from the Trump administration, and instead I watch the ticker below for any word about Ivan Valkov's condition. Last I heard he was hanging in there, but I expect at any time to get the dreaded news that I'm a murderer.

When the ticker begins to repeat itself without any update about Ivan, I get up again to take a shower.  I welcome the soothing hot water beating through my tangled hair and into my scalp, even if it smells a little rusty and the water pressure as well as the temperature fluctuates a little bit. 

When I'm finished and dried off, I dress in a clean t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. I crawl back into bed, under the covers this time. I leave the TV on and tell myself to wake up early so I can grab a quick breakfast at Eggie's Diner a few blocks up on Main before heading out to McCarty Camp before too many locals are out and about. I realize the place as I know it is gone, thanks to Todd's vindictiveness, but McCarty Camp is still mine. Buildings can be rebuilt. So can lives. I'm tough. I'm resilient. And I'm a survivor.

But God, it's weird being back here—coming back married to a world-famous superstar and yet guilty of multiple felonies committed against a powerful Russian billionaire. Comfortably financially secure, and yet for all intents and purposes, I'm homeless. How the fuck could it all have happened in four short months? It's enough to drive me insane if I think about it long enough, and so I don't think about it anymore. I give in to my mind and body's need for rest instead. Road-fatigue has sunk all the way into my bones. I close my eyes and let the drone of the TV carry me off to a welcome deep sleep.

 

***

 

Eggie's is doing moderately brisk business the next morning when I wander in and head for an empty stool at the counter, intent on keeping my back to the other diners. With one quick glance around the room, I know every last customer on a first-name basis. I fully expect to be recognized—in Colvin Creek, where I've lived my entire life, especially—there's no avoiding it. It's going to happen. But I'd prefer it happen on my terms. I'm just not up for answering a bunch of questions from everyone, many of whom probably already know plenty about where I've been and what I've been doing.

By some miracle, the friendly waitress near my age who pours my coffee and takes my order for a ham and cheese omelet is someone I've never seen before in my life.  The nametag clipped to her plain black t-shirt identifies her as Angie, and she looks at me with frank but polite blank curiosity. We're both probably wondering why we haven't seen one another before.

I carefully keep my back to the diner as I polish off two cups of coffee and the huge four-egg omelet,  and stand up to pay the bill.  When I turn to leave, I yank my hoodie down almost over my eyes. It's down so low I can only see where I'm going by looking at my feet as I head for the door.

And that's how I end up walking straight into the rock-solid chest of Billy Heinrickson, the man who two years ago accidentally killed my father.


	24. Lanie

The momentum of the collision drives me backward a couple of steps. My hood slides off my head unnoticed as I look up, the apology dying in my throat. There are a few small gasps and I'm dimly aware of the sudden silence at the tables nearest us.

I feel all of their eyes on us.

On me.

Colvin Creek boasts a population of close to a thousand. Logically, the odds should be in my favor of not running—in this case, literally—into the one resident I'd happily live the rest of my days never again seeing. But odds aren't often in my favor and today is no exception.

I've known Billy Heinrickson my entire life. Older than me by just a couple of months, we were in the same grade all the way through school. Even as kids Billy was a strapping muscular youth thanks to his hardworking farm upbringing. He was an accomplished athlete, good-looking and popular. As teenagers we hung out in the same social circle, even though I was hardly a member of the jock clique. In a town as small as ours, the lines of high school hierarchy were a little blurrier than most, with lots of crossover friendships and dating relationships. So Billy and I were pals growing up, if for no other reason than limited options.

As gorgeous as Billy was, I'd never considered dating him, though a couple of my friends had. By tenth grade my eyes were for one guy and one guy only, a fact that I couldn't conceal after awhile. That was something everyone I knew never failed to give me shit about. Billy especially.

"Mr. Dylan is so old," he'd say, his tone disparaging. "He's like twenty-six or something."

"Thus the basis of his appeal," I'd retort haughtily.

Billy would just shake his head at my continued crush on our orienteering chapter coach, saying I'm wasting my time chasing after a guy so much older than me. I wasn't blind. I'd caught Billy checking me out, even when he was supposedly going out with another girl. I'd clued in on his subtle flirtations quickly enough, but I ignored him until he finally gave up.

The rest, as they say, is history. Mr. Dylan became Todd, who became my boyfriend, and then my husband and father of my daughter. Billy moved away for a little while after high school and came back a fully trained firefighter. This meant we worked together during my time with the local department as an EMT, and when he bought the parcel of land next to McCarty Camp, we became neighbors.

For a time Billy was seriously involved with a pretty woman named Stacy Volk. She'd moved to town to take a job as a second-grade teacher when Mrs. Randall retired. They were obviously deeply in love and it looked like they were going to get married. But then something happened between them—I have no idea what—that caused them to break up, and then one morning shortly afterward, Billy took it upon himself to try poaching a deer that crossed onto our property.

I thought then and now that it was a very out-of-character thing for Billy to have done. A tiny part of me that tried to work through my grief and anger thought maybe Billy's breakup with Stacy had altered his judgment and made him do something so completely stupid. I mean, Billy had always been strictly law-abiding, not gaining himself so much as a speeding ticket that I knew of. But my father's violent death is just one more example of how we never know people as well as we think we do.

"Lanie." The word slips from Billy's lips in a half-whisper. His eyes are wide and a little wary. "Holy shit. When did you get back—"

Without a word I brush past him, yanking my hood back up as I head toward the door. Not that it'll do any good now. I feel multiple pairs of eyes on my back as I step out into the frigid cold morning and get into my Jeep. By noon all of Colvin Creek will know I'm here, and the inquisitive stares and bold questions will begin. It's inevitable, but I'm not ready for it. I just got into town last night and have too much to do before taking on the prying locals.

It isn't every day someone from Colvin Creek takes her kid by force from her father, runs out of town, and resurfaces in Hollywood captured in racy pictures with a celebrity. Where I once lived my whole life strictly under the radar, I'm now gossip fodder of the kind this sleepy community hasn't ever seen the likes of. Between me and Todd, we've given this place enough fodder for years to come.

I start the Jeep, fuming. _Fuck you, Billy. In fact, fuck all of you._ Why the hell had I thought coming back here was a good idea?

Oh yeah. To locate Shae Neilson and force her to retract her allegations against Jared. Maybe our marriage is over, and maybe he impulsively married me in the first place because he needed a life raft to cling to, some way to escape the shit he'd mired himself in. He'd used me on some level, and maybe I should hate him for it. And yeah, maybe part of me does. But I also know Jared meant it when he said he loved me. Just as I meant it when I said I loved him, and his celebrity status had nothing to do with those feelings.

I lower my head to rest it on the steering wheel, letting out a long breath and closing my eyes. No matter what's happened between Jared and me, I can't allow Shae to destroy him. Not when I have the power to put a stop to it. And  _that's_  why I've come back here. That, and because this is my home and I belong here just as much as everyone else does.

 _Bring on the stares...I'll stare right back. Bring on the questions...I don't have to answer them. I don't owe you people jack shit. Bring on the not-so-subtle elbow-jab exchanges and whispers, because I don't give a fuck what you think. The paparazzi and the tabloid gossip didn't break me, so what the hell makes me think_ you _can?_

I straighten up again and stare at the plate glass window of the diner. Covering most of it is a silly cartoon painting of a smiling egg holding a plate high in one hand. The egg wears a chef's hat with "Eggie's" written across it in old-fashioned black script.

I shut off my Jeep, open the door, and climb out again. Squaring my shoulders, head held high, I walk straight back into Eggie's Diner.

 

***

 

Making a huge effort to ignore the blatant stares of everyone in the place, I stand next to the booth Billy's sitting in alone. Billy looks at me over the brim of his cup, his blue eyes wide with surprise and more than a touch of apprehension at my request to join him. Next to me the waitress, Angie, stands there with the carafe she's come to top Billy's coffee with. Confusion knits her brows together as she glances back and forth between us.

"Yeah, I guess," Billy says, lowering his cup and holding it out for Angie. His other hand gestures at the seat across from him. "Have a seat."

I do, and Angie, still hovering, asks if I'd like another cup of coffee.

Without glancing around, I know people are definitely looking our way. I feel pinned under the whispers and stares, like I'm a bug under a magnifying glass. "Nothing for me, thanks," I answer.

When Angie's gone, Billy sips his coffee and regards me curiously. "This is...a little awkward."

I nod. It definitely is. I've gone out of my way to avoid Billy since his arrest a couple of days after the shooting, and to be sitting with him now in a public place is something I'd never have contemplated would ever happen again. On the day he'd pled guilty to negligent homicide, it had taken superhuman effort not to blow his brains out myself. The sour bitterness and hatred hasn't left me yet, but it's now tempered by something more urgent. A need for answers. And so I dive right in.

"What's left of McCarty Camp?" I ask him. "Is it true that it's completely destroyed?"

Billy nods soberly. "The guys did their best, especially with the main house, but by the time they got out there, it was gone. None of the buildings could be saved."

"I see." I draw random patterns on the scratched formica table top separating us, noting Billy's use of the word 'they' rather than 'we'. "I would still like to see it, but the road has to be cleared. Does Rick Foster still do plow work?"

Billy sips his coffee and sets the cup down. "Yeah, but there's no need. The road's clear."

I look at him in surprise. "It is? Who's been plowing it?"  _And who's been paying for it?_

"I have."

I blink. "Why would you do that?"

Billy looks out the window. Where we're sitting, the glass is clear and offers a view of Main Street. I follow his gaze and spot the older blue Chevy pickup parked in front of the diner. It has a heavy-duty plow blade attached. "That's my truck," he says, not answering my question.

"Is that what you're doing for work now?"

A shadow crosses Billy's rugged features, but he doesn't turn to face me as he answers, "In the winter, yeah. It's about the only thing I can do now."

The sadness is in his voice, too, but I refuse to feel a shred of pity for him. "What about the rest of the year?" I ask.

"The rest of the year I just...do whatever comes along. Handyman stuff, mostly. Farm work, construction and stuff like that." He shifts a little in his seat. Turning to me he asks, "Where's Shelby? She's not with you?"

My eyes connect with Billy's, and my voice is curt as I answer, "She's fine."

"I didn't ask  _how_  she is, Lanie. I asked  _where_ she is." Billy's blue eyes hold mine steadily.

"She's in—" I begin, and then I stop. What possible business is it of Billy's where Shelby is? "Look," I say tersely, "I don't want to talk about my daughter with you. In fact, I don't want to talk to you at all, but I came back in here because I need a favor. All things considered, I think we can agree that you owe me."

Billy studies me, his jaw working. Then, quietly he says, "What is it?"

I glance around. Most of the other customers have gone back to their meals and conversations, and I no longer feel quite so conspicuous. That emboldens me to follow through what I came back into the diner to do. Billy knows everyone in Colvin Creek and everyone in town knows him. Meeting Billy's cautious expression, I take a deep breath and plunge in. "Do you know where Shae Neilson is?"

Billy's breath catches audibly. His eyes widen and he literally flinches in his seat. "Why are you asking about  _her?"_

"That's not your concern," I reply acidly. "You know where she is, Billy. I can see it in your eyes." I lean forward over the table, unblinking. "Tell me. Is she still around here?"

An odd look crosses Billy's features and his throat works as he swallows. He glances around the diner and then back at me. He nods almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, she is. But you really don't want to mess with her." He picks up his coffee cup but he doesn't drink. He studies the contents, sets it down again and it clatters a little on the table. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, but there's an edge in it. "Christ, what fucking timing." He glances at me again. His voice is low as he warns, "You of all people better stay the fuck away from there, Lanie."

I'm not understanding Billy's reactions at all. From the second I spoke Shae's name, he's looked like he's going to jump out of his skin. What the hell is going on? "Listen, asshole." I speak through clenched teeth. "I'm going to find out what I need to know whether you tell me or someone else does. You owe me, Billy, so I may as well find out where Shae is from you."

Billy glances around the diner again, clearly uncomfortable and on edge. "You don't get it. She's mixed up with fucked-up shit and fucked-up people. Has been for awhile, but now—" he stops abruptly and passes a hand over his face.

"Now,  _what?"_  I prod. "Out with it."

Billy sighs. "She's a dope-fiend. Meth, and that's not the worst of it by a long shot. Especially for you. Stay away, Lanie. For God's sake. Do whatever it is you came back here to do, but don't go anywhere near Shae Neilson."

 _Shae, a meth-head?_ Though I can't wrap my head around the idea that Shae of all people has gotten into that shit, I give a careless shrug. "So, she's tweaker. So? Apparently you've forgotten who I was married to."

"No, Lanie, I haven't forgotten who you were married to. That's the whole point! Todd is—" he cuts himself off as his voice is rising, and he sighs again. Keeping his voice down, he says, "I don't want any part of this. No more." He glances around the diner. "And I sure the fuck don't want to be responsible for anyone getting hurt."

I stare at him wide-eyed. Is he fucking  _serious?_  I bite back a cutting retort. "Just tell me where the hell Shae is, Billy. Give me an address, and our business is done."

Billy grimaces. "Lanie, I—" he sighs again. "Fine. She's in Arguss. But—"

I sit back in the booth, crossing my arms. "Now was that so fucking hard? Where in Arguss?"

"I do handyman work for the owner of the trailer park where she lives," Billy says, still grimacing."I patched a leak in the roof of her place just a couple of months ago. It's the most rundown trailer in the park, and the smallest."

"God, she lives  _there?_  It was a shithole even when we were kids."

"Yeah, well it's worse now. Believe me." He stares at me. "I wish you'd tell me why you're so gung-ho to see Shae. Especially now. The timing is..." he trails off, shaking his head slowly. "Weird."

"And  _I_  said, it's not your concern," I say as I rise from the booth. Crazy that a  _thank you_  is on the tip of my tongue. I turn and head to the door without saying it. Once outside, I walk to my Jeep, digging my keys from my hoodie as I let out a long, quivering breath. Relief drives that sigh, followed by a tiny smile of satisfaction. Shae's still in the area, and if all goes according to plan, this whole thing will be over in twenty-four hours. Maybe less. Strange that I can manage a smile at all. The stress of sitting across the table from my dad's killer—however unintentional the killing was—and attempting to hold a civil conversation has been way too taxing.

"Lanie, wait a sec—" Billy calls behind me.

Jesus Christ,  _now_  what? I turn from my Jeep and face him. "Yeah?"

Billy must have been in a hell of a hurry to catch up with me. He's not wearing the tan Carhart jacket that I noticed hanging on the hook next to the booth he was sitting in, and he rubs his bare arms against the cold. "Look," he says. "I need to tell you something. I've already talked to the investigators who were in charge of my case. I've talked to both the DA and my defense attorney too. So it's going to come out really soon anyway, but I want to tell you this myself."

 _What the actual fuck is he on about?_  "Tell me what?" I ask wearily as I open the door of my Jeep.

"The truth about what happened that day."

I spin around quickly and stare at him. There's no trace of the hesitation, the evasiveness and the nervous energy he gave off moments ago. Now, his expression is earnest, and the directness of his deep blue eyes is reminiscent of the Billy Heinrickson that I grew up with, the friend and neighbor I haven't seen since before my dad's death. Though now there are lines in the corners of Billy's eyes that weren't there even two years ago, and the morning sunshine picks up shiny glints of silver here and there in his thick brown hair. These first signs of aging don't distract from his good looks in the slightest. In fact, they enhance them.

None of it touches me though. I'm far too pissed off, and almost audibly, something inside my head snaps. My voice drips venom as I hiss, "How. The fuck. Dare. You." Both fire and ice shoot through me, from my clenched jaw to my fisted hands that ache to do all the damage they can to Billy's handsome face. "I read the police report. I was there in  _court,_  Billy. I  _know_  the truth about what happened that day." It takes an almighty effort to keep my voice down as violent rage threatens to consume me. If I lose control, the entire business district of Colvin Creek would hear me. My voice trembles with barely contained rage as I point a finger in his face and finish with, "The  _truth?_ The truth is that your carelessness and stupidity took my dad from me."

Billy's expression doesn't change. He doesn't step away from me like I expect him to. But if he knew how close I am to losing it and evening the score, if he knew my loaded gun is just two quick motions away, he sure the hell wouldn't be standing this close and speaking words that work like pouring acid into the wound he inflicted.

But he doesn't know, and he doesn't back off. He remains completely still, acting almost as if I actually  _am_  holding a weapon on him. The only movement is the steam of his breath and mine, until he shakes his head in the faintest of movements. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady and so quiet it's a near-whisper.

"No, Lanie. I'm not the one who killed your dad."

 

***

 

Immediately after tearing out of the parking space in front of Eggies, I drive out to McCarty Camp, the bizarre conversation with Billy both inside and outside the diner resonating over and over in my head. The bastard has balls and then some. Trying to deny what he did after pleading guilty to it in court and serving a jail sentence which, in my opinion, was far too light. My father is dead, and Billy got a year in county with Huber privileges plus early release for time served. Fucking  _insane._

Though Billy did lose his job as a firefighter, and then he lost everything else in the wrongful death lawsuit. I'm guessing the harsh reality of the consequences has caught up with him and he's trying in some ridiculously desperate way to vindicate himself in the hopes of getting at least some of his old life back. A surge of anger floods me again as I recall how Billy stood at my driver's side window, pleading with me to hear him out just before I sped off, cutting him off mid-sentence.

_"If you didn't pull the fucking trigger, Billy, then who did?" I snapped as I started the Jeep._

_A downcast look, a worrying of a bottom lip with his teeth. "Lanie, I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."_

_A scoff. "You're absolutely right. I wouldn't."_

_He frowned at me, and there was a flash of something in his eyes that looked an awful lot like concern. But why the hell would Billy Heinrickson of all people be concerned about me? "Why did you come back here, Lanie? Why didn't you bring Shelby with you? Why did you decide to come back now, and what the hell do you want with Shae Neilson?" The questions tumble out one after the other, his voice guarded and tight throughout._

_"My answer to every last one of those questions is the same," I retorted as I put the Jeep in reverse to back out of the parking space. "None. Of. Your. Business. And this conversation is over."_

_Billy passed a hand over his face and his sigh sent another cloud of steam into the cold morning air. "The timing is insane, I'll say that much," he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he met my eyes again. "Don't go out to Shae's alone, Lanie." A pause, and then he said, "Let me come with you."_

_I'd heard way more than enough. "Goodbye, Billy." I took my foot off the brake and hit the gas, nearly running over Billy's own foot if he hadn't jumped back in time. I slammed the Jeep into drive and gunned it. I glanced in the rearview mirror as I sped off. Billy was still standing in the street, watching me go, and a huge part of me wanted to turn around and smash into him._

When I reach the turn to McCarty Camp I find out that although Billy might be the biggest liar on God's green earth, he _is_  telling the truth about two things at least. One, that the road leading to my home is plowed clear, and two, that the place is completely destroyed. Nothing's left of the main house but a charred, blackened skeleton poking out of the snow.

Not that I expected to see anything different than what my imagination told me, what Billy described to me this morning and Flora told me months ago. But being here, seeing the reality of it for myself, something slams into my gut with traumatic blunt force.

My tears quickly freeze on my cheeks as I plow through the snow and surveying the wreckage, but I ignore it and concentrate on choking back sobs. The place can be rebuilt. I know that it can. While insurance refused my claim because my husband's name was still on the deed with mine, Jared has made sure that I'm well enough provided for. If everything goes perfect, if I'm frugal and do a lot of the work myself, I'll be able to rebuild my home.

But there are unavoidable things like permit fees. Electricity will have to be rerun as well as plumbing, for the main house as well as the cabins, which requires licensed professionals who don't come cheap. Plus the boats and the fishing and hunting gear will have to be replaced, and things will go wrong. They always do. I have to be prepared to foot the bill for every contingency.

The numbers begin to add themselves in my head and my heart sinks.

But at least I can rebuild a home for me and Shelby. The rest, I'll figure out later.

 

***

 

The winding and hilly road to Arguss, always treacherous in winter, is relatively clear of ice and snow. I arrive at the outskirts of the little town around five in the evening. Trees cast elongated shadows across the narrow, bumpy road that leads to the trailer park just off the main highway. Because Billy described it as the smallest in the park, I find Shae's mobile home quickly enough.

A couple of lights are on inside the early-70's era metal-sided trailer. It's small all right, perhaps twelve by forty feet. Years of negligence are evident; dark patches of rust creep along the sides of it, just above the skirting, some pieces of it missing, some of it bent and a corner swinging free in the frigid breeze. Behind the house is a shed with one door hanging slightly askew.

Like all of the other mobile homes in the park, Shae's windows are covered in plastic as added insulation against the cold. A banged-up 90-something Chevy Malibu is parked in front of the house. I can't tell if the car's color is black or a very dark blue or green. That is, where the cancer hasn't eaten holes through it, especially around the gas tank. I pull my Jeep to a stop perpendicular to the Malibu and get out.

I can immediately hear the muted sound of a TV or radio coming from the trailer. As I stand still and gather my thoughts, I realize it's country music I'm hearing. When the station goes to break, I recognize the call letters of the radio station that assailed my ears throughout my marriage to Todd. Ugh...Shae's taste has sure devolved since she head-banged and danced in the moshpit with me in 2003. For a moment I let myself wonder what kind of hard luck has befallen her. Shae comes from a comfortably middle-class family and in high school she was a pretty, popular, high-achieving student with a bright future, spoiled princess attitude notwithstanding. What's happened that's led her to the conditions she's living in now?

I shake off those thoughts. How Shae ended up destitute is not my problem, and I have no room for pity or empathy. But I can sure see how she might be motivated to find a hefty payout wherever she can.

I bypass the car and maneuver my way through a haphazardly shoveled path, the first tingling of unease rippling through me. My heart begins to race and I pause as my lungs threaten to tighten up on me. I force myself back into alert but calm before I climb the half-shoveled metal steps leading to the door. Then I raise my fist and pound on it loud enough to be heard over the radio.

"Fuck! Someone's here!" a gruff male voice exclaims from inside the house. There's something weirdly familiar about it. but my mind is too focused to let me chase it around. Billy's words of warning are echoing in my head, rising to a crescendo, and so I'm more interested in what is being said than who's saying it. I'm not at all surprised to hear the note of panic in the man's voice, especially if Billy's right about what Shae's into. Tweakers are notoriously paranoid. Shit...I shouldn't be confronting her when there's some guy with her. That puts me at a bigtime disadvantage should things turn violent.

But why would they turn violent? I'm not here to beat the hell out of the woman, merely to convince her to retract her lies and tell the truth about what happened that night at the State Fair. There's no need to get worked up. None whatsoever. And I'm here now, I've already knocked on the door, and so—

"Fuck, Shae! It's Ed already! I told you to stay out of that eight of his! He's gonna fucking kill us if we sell him another short!"

"Oh, shut up, it ain't Ed. He ain't gonna be here til nine," a female voice responds waspishly, and then yells, presumably at me, "If you're looking for Spencer, he ain't here!"

A short silence, the vibration of footsteps, and then the male voice growls, "I can't see through this fuckin' plastic, but there's an SUV that looks like Ed's and it's parked behind your car." Another pause, and the male voice is barely audible when he hisses, "Fucking A! I'm not here. Okay? I'm gonna let you deal with him and explain why he ain't getting an eight-ball. Again." There's the sound and vibration of heavy footsteps again, but they're not coming toward the door. They're headed to the back of the trailer.

The female doesn't sound alarmed, but she does clearly sound annoyed. "Christ, it's prolly just one of Spencer's friends." The radio's volume finally comes down a notch or two, and then there are more footsteps, and these are coming toward the door. I brace myself for just about anything. And once more I wish I'd left and come back when she's alone.

The door flings open, and there she is. Shae Neilson. And oh, how the mighty have fallen. I can't help staring in complete shock, and I can't conceal a whispered, "Holy shit."

Though Shae and I were never besties, we were friends of sorts up until I started dating Todd, when Shae abruptly stopped talking to me soon after the State Fair trip. It's hard to reconcile the Shae Neilson I remember with the creature now standing in the dilapidated trailer's doorway, glaring at me with open suspicion and hostility.

Gone is any trace of the vibrant, pretty teenager she once was. A skinny, disheveled hag appearing to be almost twice Shae's thirty years stands before me. Eyes sunken and pupils blown wide open, cheeks hollowed out, skin cratered, dry and cracked, her once glorious red hair dull, stringy and unkempt. She's dressed in a threadbare maroon hoodie and jeans that have definitely seen better days. Oh, yeah. I've seen this look before. Too many times to count.

"Yeah?" Shae says now. There's a guarded, almost fight-or-flight expression on her haggard face. She's nervous, jittery. And she doesn't recognize me at all.

"You don't know who I am, Shae?" I ask. Oh, God, what's happened to her? I know the answer to that, of course I know...but still... _how?_

Shae frowns. "Are you one of Spencer's friends' mom? What's that little asshole done now?"

I shake my head. Pity for Shae is taking over my anger at her, and I kind of hate myself for it. I can't make any room for pity. "It's Lanie, Shae. Lanie McCarty. Look, it's freezing out here. Can I come in?"

Both recognition and surprise fill Shae's expression. Her mouth drops open and it's then that I notice what remains of her once-perfect teeth are either discolored or rotting. Her eyes dart to her right once, then twice, and her expression darkens before her guard goes back up. Way, way up. Her eyes narrow, her jaw tightens. "Well, well. This is just fuckin' perfect. Lanie McCarty. I got nothing to say to you." She starts to close the door in my face, but my booted foot stops it.

"Hey! What the fuck!" Shae shoves at the door in a vain attempt to either crush my foot or make me pull it back. No such luck for either one in these boots of mine. They're reinforced for hiking rugged terrain and I can't even feel the squeeze between the door and the frame. "Get the fuck out of here!" Shae rages, her wild eyes darting to the right again.

"Nope," I say, putting my hand on the door and giving it a gentle push. "I'm not leaving until we have a talk."

Shae gives up trying to crush my foot in the flimsy trailer door. "What the fuck do you want?" she demands.

"Let me in and I'll tell you," I respond.

Shae's eyes and mine hold in a silent standoff for a moment. There's aggression in hers, the kind I'm familiar with from Todd. There's anger and open hostility on top of paranoia. I guess that's understandable, given the fact that she's high as a kite, plus the way I've shown up out of the blue and literally shoved my foot in her door. She has to know why I'm here though—she has to know about me and Jared. She knows her little game is over, and she's not coming out of it with the payoff she'd hoped for. No wonder she's giving me that murderous glare.

Suddenly, Shae backs off. Her eyes flicker to her right once more before she opens the door wider and beckons me inside. At this sudden change of attitude I'm instantly on my guard, reminding myself that she's not alone. There's a man with her, somewhere in the back of the trailer, the same direction Shae keeps looking. 

I vaguely remember hearing that Shae had gotten pregnant while still in high school. That must be who Spencer is, and I'm relieved that Shae said he isn't home. I don't know the child from Adam, but I can't help feeling sorry for the boy. Imagine having to grow up in this place. I step inside and take a cursory look around to get my bearings.

As bad as the outside of the trailer looks, the inside is much worse. If there ever was a stereotypical trap house, this is it, complete with broken down old furniture, a old TV with foil-wrapped rabbit ears, overflowing ashtray on a metal TV tray in front of a battered couch losing its stuffing. What I can see of the kitchen from where I'm standing is no better. Burnt-orange countertops, at least where they're not covered with discarded fast food wrappers and grime, dirty dishes scattered everywhere. A nearly empty milk carton on the stove, the remains congealed into cottage cheese. Filthy tile, filthy carpet. Over the stomach-churning reek of rotting food, a neglected litter box and stale cigarette and marijuana smoke is another sharp chemical odor, reminiscent of burnt plastic, and it permeates the place.

And Goddammit, I sure do know that smell.  Shae's living in a meth lab.

The weight of my gun tucked in my jeans, and my knife, securely buckled in its sheath on my belt, are marginally reassuring. Going into an unfamiliar situation to confront someone, no matter who it is, is stupid without some kind of weapon. One of many lessons both my dad and Todd taught me. Though I'd blown off that asshole Billy's warnings, confident there was no danger in coming here, now I'm not so sure. Shae is clearly unstable, clearly spun out of her mind, and I know from personal experience how unhinged and unpredictable tweakers can be.

Plus, I remind myself grimly, Shae is not alone. If this turns ugly, I'm at a major disadvantage by numbers alone, not to mention the kind of insanity and violence someone high on meth can be capable of.

"So? What are you doing here?" Shae demands belligerently as I step further into the pigsty of a trailer.

I settle my eyes on her. "I know it's you accusing Jared Leto of rape, Shae. I'm here to put a stop to it."

Shae's cracked lips split into a grin and once again I see how truly horrible her teeth are. "Yeah? How are you gonna do that?"

I fold my arms across my chest. "Your motive is money, right? You went into this expecting his people to offer you a cash settlement to retract the story. So, how much do you want?"

Shae's grin broadens. "Lanie, honey, you're just as stupid now as you were when we were kids." She lets out a sharp laugh and walks over to the sofa. Throwing off the skinny, mangy gray tabby cat I hadn't even noticed curled up there, she flops down on the sofa and peers up at me, still smiling. "Look at you. Little Lanie McCarty. You nabbed yourself an A-list celebrity, you're living in the lap of luxury, probably shitting gold bricks and thinking you can shut me up with money? Well guess what...this ain't about money, bitch."

Alarm shoots through my body, setting me on high alert. Something's off here. Something's really, really off. "Then what is it about?" I ask quietly. "Do you understand that this has gone beyond posting some bullshit story on a gossip board? Jared could go to jail because of your lies, Shae. And you know as well as I do what happened that night. Jared never so much as looked at you."

Shae grinds what's left of her teeth together. "You hit it right on the head. Jared didn't look at me. He looked at  _you."_ Her voice is snarling, dripping with hate. "He looked at  _you._  He touched  _you._  It's  _always_  you, Lanie. Ever since high school you've stolen everything I ever wanted."

Nonplussed, I stare at her. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

Shae smirks, an expression that is wholly at odds with the fury in her eyes. "God, you really are dumb, aren't you?" She gets to her feet, skinny arms crossing over her flat chest, and she hisses, "You couldn't be happy taking just one guy from me, could you?"

What the fuck? "I never took anyone from you, Shae!" I exclaim. "Christ, every guy at school liked you! You were the fucking Homecoming Queen your sophomore year! You dated Teddy Meyer, for God's sake! "

"I didn't  _want_  Teddy, or any of those other guys!" Shae screams, her eyes blazing with hate. "I wanted  _Todd,_  and you took him! When you were around, I didn't stand a fucking chance!"

I feel like I've been punched in the gut. "Todd?" I echo weakly. "You—you had a thing for  _Todd?"_

Shae throws her head back and lets out a peal of high-pitched laughter. "Like I said, Lanie, you're just as stupid now as you were then. You couldn't see what was right in front of your face."

I swallow hard. "Well, you're right. I couldn't see it. And if I had a do-over, I'd hand him to you on a silver platter. Trust me, you didn't miss out."

The corner of Shae's mouth quirks in a funny little smile. "No, I didn't miss out. At all." She moves around the coffee table and I turn to follow her. She walks the short distance across the room and picks up something from a cluttered bookcase. She stands there, her back to me, and her thin shoulders heave up and down, her heavy sigh audible. "I almost told you, you know. But he threatened me, saying if I breathed a word, he'd destroy my life. Like he didn't anyway. Both of you did." She turns then, and there's something in her hand. A picture frame, it looks like. She's clutching it to her chest, the photo side facing her body. A chill of premonition runs through me at the look in her eyes when they meet mine.

"Remember those few days before Todd deployed to Iraq when you guys were engaged?" she asks, her voice almost soft and gentle. "In the summer of 2004?"

I nod, the chill in my body doubling."Todd went to Duluth for the weekend to see his parents before he shipped out."

That quirky smile is back. "Todd hated his mom for marrying his stepdad, Lanie. They weren't even speaking to each other. Todd went to Duluth, yeah. But he went with me, and—" she looks down at the framed photo in her hands— "that weekend he gave me the one thing he's never given you." Shae turns the photo around, and my heart drops to my toes as all the acrid air is sucked out of the tiny room.

The photo is an eight-by-ten of a boy who looks about ten years old. A boy with Todd's brown eyes and chestnut-colored hair. A boy with Todd's high cheekbones and flaring eyebrows.

 _Oh, my God._  I'm not even sure I've spoken  out loud, but Shae's eyes glitter with triumph. "This is Spencer, Lanie. Your daughter's half-brother. He's almost thirteen now, and he's almost as big a fuck-up as his father." She turns and tosses the photo back on the bookcase. "I was fucking Todd almost as long as you were, starting when I was sixteen, so no, I  _didn't_  miss out. Except that he loved  _you._  He married  _you._  He lived with  _you,_ while I was run out of town and stuck raising my kid in some Section 8 dump. I was just—" she waves her hand in a fluttering gesture—  "he paid for me to leave town when he found out he'd knocked me up, and he sent me a check every month to keep me quiet. After Spencer was born he came to visit once in awhile. He kept saying he'd divorce you when Shelby was older. But he never did."

My head is spinning. Nausea clogs my throat so I can barely speak. "How long did this go on, Shae?"

She throws her head back and lets out another peal of laughter. "How long  _did_  it go on? It's never  _stopped."_   Her eyes narrow into tiny slits. "Except, of course when he was in jail last fall thanks to his obsession with you. At least  _that's_ finally over." Shae's restless eyes dart from mine to something over my shoulder, something behind me, and it's then that I remember we're not alone in the trailer. It's then that it all comes together. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my hand automatically goes behind me to grab my gun from my waistband. I'm ready to spin around in one fluid motion and take the bastard down before he can take me down.

But of course Todd's faster than I am.

He always is.  


End file.
